Break Any Woman Down

Three Ladies Sipping Tea in a Persian Garden

three ladies sipping tea in a persian garden This morning I woke up on my back and alone, because already, I think IVe been through another man. A fight about something stupid ended in sex. And then me, alone on my back, listening to my front door close too loudly. So I decided to do something, wear something, that made me feel not like a woman who is sad because of a man. And I called Sharzad. "Get your ass over here," she said. "I'm tired of my friend being sad. We 17 will make our own fun, darling." That was this morning. Now, I'm knocking on her door and she's opening it. "Look at you, you queen bitch!" Sharzad screams, cradling my face in her tiny hands. "So lovely." She kisses both my cheeks and pulls me into her small apartment, locking the door behind me. My head iswrapped in vibrant red material, wrapped around and around my head like a tower, a few braids poking out from the sides and the back, my version of the wispy tendrils I see in fashion magazines. Sharzad stands back to get a better look and slaps her thighs. "Aha! Ha Ha!" She covers her mouth, but the crinkles around her almond eyes tell me that she is not through with me. "You look like a fucking African princess. Turn around." She spins me around easily, though I'm much bigger than she. "That looks really cool, you bitch. What are you up to? Wait until Nasim sees you. She's going to die. Maybe this will be something to make her smile bigger." I smile the smile I can't help, the one that near closes my eyes and stretches the corners of my mouth as far as they'll go, and Sharzad pulls me into her cramped kitchen. "Sit." In Sharzad's small apartment , one wall is all windows, most of them today cranked open to let in the fresh air. She never pulls the blinds down in her apartment, so there is always plenty of light, even on days when there is no sun. Along the edge of her table, against the wall, and all along the windowsill, she keeps flowers—some she's bought and some she's picked from the countless plants she tends to on her balcony— dozens of shapes and colors: yellows, reds, purples, oranges, and whites in bud vases, jelly jars, miscellaneous glasses from big to small. She sits down, too, and strokes a flower petal the shape of a clover and the color of a bruise, placed in a glass shaped like a boot. "This little bastard . . ." Her voice trails. "It won't last longer than a 18 break any woman down day once it's picked. So gorgeous." I touch it, too, and it reminds me of baby skin. "Have some tea, baby?" I nod and Sharzad roots around in her cabinets, finally setting out Persian candies. My eyes light up as I reach for two pieces of the nougat and pistachio candy on delicate hand-painted dishes. "Don't eat all the gaz, you little piggy," Sharzad says, pleased that Fm so easy to please. When she pours the tea, we sit in a moment of silence and I wonder why my tea never turns out like hers. Do I use too many tea leaves? Too little water? Steep it too long or too short a time? I sip the tea through the sugar cube in my mouth, just like Sharzad and her sister Nasim taught me. The cube dissolves, perfect for thirty seconds or even a minute, before the granules are few, and then gone. I reach for a handful of the candy called peshmek , just like cotton candy but white and flat, not so insistentlypretty and pink. "How is your back, Sharzad?" I notice her moving about her kitchen slightly stiff. "Oh God, this fucking back. Even if I really want to, I don't know how Fm going to have a goddamn baby with this back." For twoyears now, Sharzad has been trying to decide. Does she want a baby? Or doesn't she? Is she too old to try now? Her health is not so good. And now her back pains her. She turns down the corners of her mouth as if to say,Ah well, what do I do? I wonder...