“What are you talking about?”

“I hadn’t told you, but our dear boss, Mafiha, has been proposing to me for six months now. I’ve finally decided to say yes.”

It was a punch in the gut, coming right after the news of the death of my men in Syria.

“So this is what you’ve been doing while I’ve been away? Flirting with the chief?”

“Saleh, I’m not some teenager. Don’t speak to me that way. I’m your colleague. And friend. And what this is, is not flirting. It’s called life. And change.”

“But . . . with Mafiha? That fraud?” I barely managed to get the words out.

“He’s not a fraud. He simply takes his opportunities.”

“If you say so.”

“And he’s not such a bad writer.”

“You mean all that peace-poetry shit he’s been publishing lately?”

“Peace is not a bad thing, even if some people take advantage of it.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Come on, Saleh. Give me your blessing. I beg you. Besides, like I told you before, Mafiha wants you to edit the art section at the paper.”

“With Imam Husayn as my witness, I’ll do no such thing.”

“All right. How about just giving me your blessing then?”

“What, bless you for marrying a guy who deals with art like it’s real estate? What about truth? What about all the men I knew who just got mowed down in Syria?”

“That is exactly what I mean. What about them?”

“They’re dead!” I shouted. “But Mafiha, your boss and I guess husband, isn’t. Dodonge, the apparent fucking prince of the Syrian front, isn’t. And that other whore’s son, my so-called partner, Saeed the fake documentarian, isn’t either. Men die while these motherfuckers take their books and photos and films on tour to Europe and win awards for them. Something stinks about all this, Atia. The world fucking stinks.”

“Something does stink, you’re right about that. And that’s your self-righteous nagging. You think I don’t know what you’re up to?”

“What am I up to, Atia?”

“You’re no better than Dodonge or Saeed or, if you will, Mafiha, my husband-to-be. You want to manufacture glory for yourself off of dead soldiers’ backs. At least a guy like Mafiha just writes a few poems. And he’s a first-rate editor. Without him none of us would have jobs. But what about you? I’ve read your reports from over there. We all have. You make it sound like you’re under attack 24/7.”

“In war you’re always under attack. Even when you’re not.”

“Don’t give me your philosophical bullshit, Saleh. I know you better.” She paused for a second, added a “Fuck you,” and then burst into tears.

“For the love of Imam Husayn . . . Atia jaan, take it easy. All right, I accept.”

She said softly, “I’m tired of this running, Saleh. I want to write my books. I want to not have to wake up every morning thinking how I’ll make next month’s rent.”

“But why him? Are the men in Tehran such shits that you had to settle on him?”