It was a clear image but I didn’t have my camera to capture its history.
I woke up around 4 PM…I had my shoes on… After that I was in between of libido and logic for a while and of course libido took over. The window was open and I could have smelled the rain…Now, it is Tehran’s turn….
My mom was in front of TV as well as my father. She is reading less than before. But my father is the same; he has plan up to the age of 95.
Tiger Lilies and “Reading Lolita in Tehran”…That was the plan that I finished in the afternoon.
The price of petrol increased 500% in the news.
I could have imagined long queue in local highways. We were in one toward a tunnel. We stopped behind a traffic light. Red with a counter: 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, …
The highway went into darkness because of electric cut off. In the car beside, two girls were kissing passionately.
Green and the first gear: we went toward the tunnel full of cars with people inside.
I was thinking how many stories can be written just in this tunnel, a tunnel toward future.
I am sure these cars will move soon although the price of petrol is 5 times more than before in this tunnel linking 2 local highways.
“If you want, you can pay first. I have many books”. I said to the girl behind me in the queue. She didn’t say a word. Her shy blue eyes was locked on the title of her book: “Ansichten eines clowns”
Nima came with a book in his hand. He read the first sentence of the book with a massive smile:
“Democracy is against all religions, particularly Islam”. All of us started smiling in the queue.
I think these smiles are so promising.
Mr. Abbassi is an engineer who is working in this book shop, a simple man, thinner than me with a moustache. He brought another book:
“It has been translated recently. It is amazing”
Butterfly and Tank: the fifth column and four stories of the Spanish civil war.
Our eyes converged to each other on the title, like two parallel lines meeting in infinity.
Both of us bought the book and went toward our mutual destiny in different local highways.
I’ve always liked to write a story ending with heart attack, a scenario that Amir had played up to the end.
I can remember the last lines that he wrote in a local highway:
“I’ve gradually came to this point that western intellectuals owe a great respect to third world intellectuals, because of the great pain that they are receiving for being intellectuals.”
Reza, the book terrorist, stole my new book. We went to his house after visiting my uncle who had an open heart surgery a couple of days ago.
In the beginning of the book I wrote:
“I am so crazy that I have still hope to this stupid friendship, which is full of rubbery and abuse. I was crazy, I am crazy and I will be crazy.
I hope at least you allow me to read the lines that I’ve paid for it.
You know how much I love you and Maryam but what I wrote is none of your business”
I still haven’t written a story ending with heart attack.