The cold evening wind wound its way through the leafless trees of Motahari Boulevard, one of the neighborhoods in Mashhad, dragging along the few yellow leaves that had survived from autumn toward the street gutter. The sky was gray, like the face of the man hurrying out of the bus station. His name was Mehdi. He was thirty-two years old and an employee at an insurance company, earning just enough to barely cover his rent. In his pocket, he carried an eviction notice from his landlord, and in his mind, the image of a girl who hadn’t replied to his messages for two days.
Maryam, the girl he had met two years earlier in a hypermarket, had become the one thing that made the dull grind of everyday life bearable. She was a nursing student: energetic, outspoken, and with eyes that Mehdi always said were “like the sunsets in Mellat Park.”
He had seen the girl many times, wandering through different sections of the hypermarket, placing items into her basket. He remembered one time in particular, he stood in the produce section, intoxicated by the scent of citrus, a fragrance that had drawn him there. He remembered exactly that she had picked up an orange and smelled it with her eyes closed. These quiet, secret encounters at the hypermarket began to bring color to his life, and he finally found the courage to start a conversation.
Lost in thought, Mehdi walked briskly. He had gotten off one stop early to clear his head with a short walk home. He wasn’t aware of his surroundings, his hands buried in his pockets, his gaze fixed somewhere far away until he saw the juice stand where a small crowd of men and women were gathered for ice cream. A few weeks earlier, Maryam had asked him to buy her a juice from that very stand, but he hadn’t had the money. Disappointed, she had given up.
He could never forget their conversation that night. The deepening scent of oranges, milk, and ice cream as she approached the juice stand not only stirred his hunger but also made it easier for him to recall how when they had walked a few steps away, Maryam had asked, “Do you think maybe God, since He gave us love, won’t give us money anymore?”
When Mehdi heard those words, he had felt even colder. A slight shiver ran through him, and his hands stiffened like wood. It was the first time he had ever faced such a question. He looked around and wondered whether their love was beginning to lose against money. He had expected Maryam to reach this question eventually but not this soon. He knew perfectly well that Maryam was right, and so, with his head lowered, he replied, “Then what about all those people who have both?”
Maryam had smiled bitterly and said, “Where? I’ve never seen any.” Then she kept walking.
Mehdi passed by the juice stand, and when he finally reached home, the elevator was out of order. He climbed to the fourth floor, panting, and opened the door to his small, damp apartment. The air was heavy with the smell of stale cigarettes and cold soup. His laptop sat on the corner table, surrounded by scattered sheets from unfinished insurance projects and a half-eaten orange that had been sitting on the table for a few days and had now dried out. He looked back at his phone. A new message lit up his phone screen: “Mehdi, please stop calling. I’m tired of promises and talk. I want a life, not your empty hopes.”
He read her message several times. Then, setting the phone on the table, he sat down and stared silently at the blinking light of the building across the street. There was nothing left to say.
The next morning, he decided to speak with his manager to either demand his overdue salary or to ask for an advance to get his life back in order. After that, he would find Maryam and win her back. But when he arrived at the company, an official letter waited on his desk.
“With respect: Due to workforce reduction, you are temporarily suspended until further notice.”
The company’s water carrier walked past him, carrying orange juice for the boss. He didn’t repeat his usual daily offer of asking Mehdi whether he wanted tea or not.
Mehdi said nothing. Handing in his access card, he left the building. Light snow had begun to fall along Ahmadabad Street. He took refuge in a small café down an alley, the same one where he and Maryam had once shared their first coffee. Their usual table was empty.
He opened Telegram to look for her, but she had blocked him. He ordered a coffee and sat in their spot. Checking his bank account. The smell of coffee and the sound of the melancholy music playing, along with the café’s dim light, drew him down into the depths of darkness.
He rested his head on the table, losing sense of time.
The coffee went cold. Hours passed. He got up and walked out. He didn’t know where he was going, he just walked aimlessly until he found himself standing in front of Qaem Hospital. The nearby newspaper stand displayed a bold headline: “New Layoff Plan in Mashhad’s Insurance Companies.”
He lifted his head and glanced around. The cold had seeped into his bones. The street had grown emptier, and he felt a sudden loss of interest in everything. His knees began to tremble, and he struggled to breathe.
He didn’t feel like going home. He kept walking toward Kuhsangi Street and kept walking, and walking. Hours went by. The sun set. Snow fell heavier. By nightfall, the city was buried in a chilling, terrible silence.
The next morning, after three days of clouds, the sun finally rose. People filled the streets again; life went on. An old man, leaning on his cane, reached the newspaper stand by Qaem Hospital, picked up a paper, and shook his head after reading the front page.
“Always bad news,” he muttered. “Not once do they print something good.”
The vendor, arranging the stack of papers, asked, “What’s it say this time, old man?”
The old man sighed. “A young man threw himself off the cliff in Kuhsangi Park last night. These youngsters are so thin-skinned. The moment life gets rough, they end it.”
The vendor shook his head and went back to his work. The old man continued down the street, his cane tapping softly against the pavement.
The sun grew warmer by the minute.
