Sam leaned in after class. “I want to hear all about it. That trip of yours. You want to go to Starbucks?”
Darya was silent. The two-week trip had taken a lot out of her. And put a lot back into her. Miranda Katilla had been puzzled at first to hear where she’d been. Slightly annoyed, it seemed, at all the Spreading Spreadsheet Specs work that Darya had missed. She’d given Darya piles of handouts to help her catch up.
And seeing Sam again? Seeing him in that basement room, sitting on the tennis-balled chair? Yes, she still felt like a silly schoolgirl when he smiled. Even if she had just come back from a place that felt more like home than Queens ever would. Even if the clothes that had been in her suitcase still smelled of dried Persian limes and dust. Smelled of pain and loss and grief and pride.
“I do not have time for coffee,” was all she could say. “I do not have time . . .”
“I’d never waste your time with coffee.” He smiled sheepishly. “But I know you love your tea.”
“I can’t.” She had to end this flirting. She had her Parviz.
“You can. It’s really not that complicated.”
Darya gave in because it was, after all, the last day of class, and she would never see this man again and she was fiftysomething and not a child or a teenager and there was nothing wrong with having tea/coffee/lemonade or even whiskey with your classmate from your Spreading Spreadsheet Specs adult education class. There wasn’t. Not one thing wrong at all.
They went to the coffee shop that Sam knew, the good one, the one he’d wanted to take her to all along. It was crowded and warm inside, yet Darya wished that she’d brought a stole or a pashmina or a chador she could cover herself with so that no one she knew could see her sitting there with Sam.
You couldn’t have two lives at once. You couldn’t be married to Parviz Rezayi, be mother of Hooman the doctor, Kayvon the lawyer, Mina the . . . Wait, what was she? Business school artist? Artist/student? Whatever. Mina would turn out to be whatever she wanted to be, this much Darya now knew. In any case, you couldn’t be all those things and flirt with Sam Collins and think about what might have been. You couldn’t reach over and touch his hair and pull him in and kiss him.
That’s not how it worked.
Sam returned with Darya’s tea. It came with a china cup and saucer and an iron Japanese kettle with real leaves inside.
“Thank you,” Darya said.
She poured the tea and watched the steam rise from the cup. She inhaled the vapors and tried to clear her head.
“It was a great class,” he said.
“It was,” she said. And now he would be gone. Gone from her life starting next week, no more sitting next to him in that basement, no more scooching her chair up to his, no more shared breaks under the starless city sky. None of that. Back to their own separate lives. Him with his young guitar students and her with her math camp, job at the bank, honeyed milk for Parviz, and her kids who were taller than she was.
What is done cannot be undone, Darya thought. I have my life. She sipped her tea.
“It was really nice to get to know you during these past six weeks,” Sam said. “I feel like . . . like I would have loved to get to know you better.”
Darya choked on the hot tea, her eyes teared, her skin felt hot. A few other patrons turned to look at her. A large young man got up announcing, “Certified in the Heimlich!” and headed for her, but Darya waved her hand and smiled at everyone and sputtered, “I am fine, thank you. I am fine, thank you so much. It is nothing.”
“Are you okay?” Sam had gotten up and was leaning over her. Bergamot, soap, Samishness. She inhaled it all. “Are you sure?”
“It was nothing.” Darya looked up at him and smiled. “I’ll be okay.”
They would sit here and she would have tea and he would have coffee and they would say good-bye. That’s how it worked. She would put an end to this flirtation once and for all. She could not do this to herself. Or to Parviz. Or to this kind Sam man in front of her. She had her Persian pride.
Sam sat back down across from her. “Parviz, right? Your husband? We ran into each other. When you were away. At Starbucks. Anyway, he’s a great guy. We just chatted and he said . . .” Sam paused and smiled shyly. “His exact words to me were, ‘Hey, Mister Sam, how’s your instrument?’ ”
Darya made a mental note to kill Parviz when she got home.
“I told him it’s in very good shape. We talked music for a while, and he told me he’s always loved the guitar. I said that I play here occasionally, at this coffee shop. They have local musicians’ night on Saturdays.” Sam paused. “So maybe you could come sometime? Both of you, of course. Performance times are posted on the bulletin board.”
“Oh. Yes, of course,” Darya said.
“I taught myself”—Sam looked down at his chord-strumming hands—“a Persian folk song. I think you’d like it.” He looked up at her shyly. “So drop in on Saturday night. Have a listen.”
“I will . . . we will,” Darya said. She wanted to hold him. He had taught himself a Persian folk song. She was moved at his kindness. She had a favorite folk song that went well with guitar, and she used to sing it when she was young, back when anything seemed possible. She wanted Sam to have picked that song.
They were quiet for a while. He leaned back in his seat and stared at her. Then he said, “Isn’t life just . . . something else?”
“Something. Else,” Darya said. “Yes, it is.” Her eyes were filling with tears, and she felt dizzy and slightly nauseated from the tea. She was hot and sweating now. Kavita would’ve sounded the alarms of menopause. But she knew that wasn’t it.
They sipped from their cups and looked out the window. “It was great to meet you,” he finally said.
She pretended to fuss with the tea leaves in the kettle. He busied himself with the bill and his wallet. When they were ready to go, he got up and pulled out her chair. It scraped loudly on the floor. There were no tennis balls on this chair.
“Good luck with everything,” she said.
It’s just how it was.