The Confidante by Mehdi M. Kashani
Mehdi M. Kashani’s “The Confidante” asks the question: what would you do if you had to host a person who is the antithesis of your upbringing? This is the situation Hamid, an Iranian-Canadian man raised with a traditional, heteronormative form of masculinity, finds himself in when Abtin, his wife’s gay best friend, comes to visit. Abtin has recently gone through a breakup and is staying for a week. From the outset, Kashani introduces tension through characterization and plot structure, which propel the story as we witness how these character interactions impact the fragile balance in Hamid’s marriage.
Hamid is a man uncomfortable with himself and his life as a first-generation immigrant. He feels increasingly awkward showing physical affection to his wife, Kathy, in stark contrast to his awareness of Abtin’s body. He wonders “what kind of man cries over a breakup,” while refusing to see how his repressed emotions have left him feeling a desperate need for control. In contrast, Abtin is emotionally close to Kathy, sharing almost every part of himself with her, from his breakup to his clothes. He bursts with emotion, whether from seeing his friend in a beautiful outfit, or simply enjoying the touristy parts of Toronto—characteristics Hamid views as a weakness. Through these interactions, Kashani challenges the stereotypes regarding strength and weakness when it comes to traditional forms of masculinity.
Further, Kashani structures his plot to instigate a possible shift in the relationship among these three characters. In his author’s note, Kashani writes: “Structurally, I’ve always been drawn to stories in which the intrusion of a foreign element—a former lover, an unknown child, a random stranger—creates friction in an already strained relationship, only to help mend it in the end, often at the intruder’s expense.” In “The Confidante,” the friction is already there, and ramps up as the story progresses. What we are left wondering is whether Abtin’s presence will impact Hamid, Kathy, and their troubled marriage for better or for worse. —CRAFT
By the time Hamid learns they’ll have a guest, it’s a done deal. Kathy has this habit of inviting people over for beer on a whim, but having someone—a man, no less—stay for a whole week without consulting him? The fact that Abtin is gay, as she repeatedly emphasizes, does little to ease Hamid’s mind.
“He was sobbing on the phone. Could hardly get a word out,” Kathy says. “I suggested maybe he could come to Toronto. Didn’t think he’d actually do it. Ten minutes later, he forwarded me his itinerary. What would you do?”
Hamid wants to ask what kind of man cries over a breakup. Instead, he heads to the kitchen to fish out his bottle of Irish whiskey from the disorganized jumble of vinegar, olive oil, and cereal. They’ve yet to buy a high-top table for drinks. After three months in this house, the floors remain bare, and the walls—except for a portrait of his late father—are mostly undecorated. Voices still echo.
When she doesn’t receive a response from him, she gestures with her hands, forming a semi-circle. “We have this spacious townhouse—a guest room and everything. What’s bothering you?”
Hamid pours half a tumbler of whiskey. Several things are bothering him at the moment, but he mentions the easiest one. “I prefer to have a coffee with people before having them under my roof.”
“Abtin is not people.”
Hamid heaves his shoulders the way he does when he runs out of ammunition in an argument, which makes Kathy more animated.
“Abtin is one of my oldest friends, Hamid. I never could’ve survived my breakup with Joey if he wasn’t by my side. If it wasn’t for his wisdom and extraordinary perception, I don’t know how I could’ve scrambled through that phase.”
If anything, this statement worries Hamid more. He swirls his glass. “Now he’s going to gain some wisdom about me.”
“I refuse to take that bait.” She sighs then continues with renewed energy. “Look at the bright side! You’ll get a chance to finally meet him.”
“There’s meeting someone and then there’s living with them,” he says.
“Hamid, you have three sisters sprinkled within a twenty-kilometer radius. I have no one. Abtin is family to me.”
There’s a wistfulness in her enunciation of family. He knows how much she misses hers back in Iran, how she envies the way his sisters dote on him—their only brother. After all, he and Kathy met at his youngest sibling’s wedding. She’d been distant when she arrived with Joey, though that relationship unraveled within months, paving the way for something new with the bride’s brother. Her pleading look now tells him she wants his full support. He can give it—for her. He just needed to let off some steam and regain control. After all, inviting an overnight guest should be a joint decision.
In a few languid steps, he’s by her side. “Tell him I’m looking forward to meeting him under this roof.”
She takes a sip from his glass and smiles. “Thanks.”
Hamid thinks the matter is settled, but Kathy’s gaze lingers longer than usual. She’s left something unsaid, and he wonders what it might be this time. Has she held something back? Does she suspect he has an issue with Abtin’s sexuality? Or is it his imagination? He drains his glass.
They drive to the airport together—Kathy’s idea. It’ll make Abtin feel more welcome, she reasons. At red lights, she taps the wheel to a random tune, a sure sign she’s happy. She’s been so cheerful the past few days that even Hamid has grown curious about the guy. He wants to see how he dresses, how he carries himself. Abtin had been attending a group exhibition abroad when Hamid first visited Kathy in Vancouver, early in their relationship. Then, their wedding took place in Iran, and Abtin, a refugee, couldn’t risk returning.
“I bet twenty bucks he’s in a pink undershirt,” Hamid says.
Kathy adjusts her sunglasses on her nose. “How about you throw away all your stereotypes? Do I bet on your friends’ clothes?”
“I don’t have bet-worthy friends. Or interesting frie—”
“You have no friends.”
Her claim hangs in the air.
They quietly merge onto the highway. Recently, their three-year-old marriage has invited such bouts of silence. Neither of them has acknowledged the new dynamic. In the end, Hamid is usually the one breaking the silence.
“Is he—?” Hamid doesn’t finish the sentence. His hands fly in the air to roughly simulate sexual positions—active and passive. He doesn’t know how to formulate his question. He’s not even sure why he wants to know. Kathy is looking at him, dangerously veering the car into the middle lane of the highway.
“Why don’t you try to find out?” she asks, before swerving back to the fast lane. Her tone suggests it’s none of his business.
Above, a plane weaves a white trail through the sky.
Hamid stays in the car in the pickup area while Kathy runs into arrivals. Even though Kathy’s lived in Toronto six fewer years than Hamid, she’s been to the airport a dozen more times. She loves airport moments, the comings and goings. And a lot of her friends visit Toronto. Hamid belonged to a circle too, but that ended after he screwed up a relationship with one of the women in the group. Kathy doesn’t know about this. It’s safer for her, for them, Hamid believes, to think of him as a misanthrope than a cheater.
The airport doors slide open, and Kathy emerges with Abtin. He is taller and lankier than in his photos, his hair thinning. Dressed in blue slacks and a pink T-shirt, he walks leisurely beside her. Her hand rests on the small of his back, like a couple strolling through a park. Hamid slips out of the car and opens the trunk.
When they approach, Abtin quickens his pace and almost lunges to shake Hamid’s hand. His grip is firm and steady. “Hey buddy, looks like you just won twenty bucks.”
Baffled, Hamid looks at Kathy, then back at Abtin who pulls at his shirt. “Good call on the color.”
Abtin squeezes Hamid’s arm before hurling his carry-on in the back of the car. Hamid scowls at Kathy, but she’s helping Abtin fit a bubble-wrapped package atop the carry-on.
During dinner, Kathy grills Abtin about their mutual friends. Between bites of pomegranate walnut and rice stew, they leap from news of engagements and babies to divorces and diseases. Some names are remotely familiar to Hamid, and some aren’t. Amusement is apparent on Kathy’s face as she learns the latest developments in the city she used to live in and love. It gives Hamid a momentary pang of guilt to have plucked her from her favorite habitat.
Abtin concludes his stories as soon as his plate is clean. Precise timing, a solo performance. When Kathy pushes for juicy details, Abtin refuses to elaborate. “Sworn to secrecy!” he claims, laughing.
Kathy faces Hamid. “See? That’s why everybody in town shares their secrets with him.”
Abtin waves it away, then eyes both of them and adopts a tone one reserves for kids. “Now it’s time for gifts.” He breaks into a grin, dropping the seriousness, and grabs the bubble-wrapped package leaning on his bag, sliding it on the unoccupied side of the dining table. “Sadly, I missed your wedding. So, something to remember me by.”
Kathy tears the wrapping and reveals a canvas painting of a girl, naked except for a scarf wrapped around her neck, the long end falling all the way past her waist, the tassels covering her pubic hair. The girl is wistful, expressionless, and maybe a bit sad as she looks into the distance.
Hamid isn’t an art expert, but it’s tellingly the work of a trained artist. He shakes Abtin’s hand. “This is priceless, man. Though I wish the scarf were a tad shorter.” He laughs at his own joke, but no one joins him.
Kathy kisses Abtin on the cheek, then lays her head on his shoulder. “It’s beautiful,” she says. The way her eyes soften makes her look exactly like the girl in the painting.
Later, while Abtin showers, Kathy lifts the painting and examines it against different walls, tilting her head to study its position.
“Is there anything you guys don’t share?” Hamid asks, sinking in the sofa and stretching his arms.
Kathy looks confused at first until Hamid tugs at his own T-shirt.
“Oh, the pink shirt?” she asks, lowering the portrait. “I couldn’t help laughing when I saw him. He asked me what was so funny.”
Hamid shrugs, then he gets distracted by the lights of a car filter through the sheer curtains. He cranes his neck to peer out the window.
“Duncan?” Kathy asks.
Hamid nods as their neighbor’s black Audi pulls into the adjacent driveway.
Kathy leans the painting against the wall. “New girl?”
“Asian. In an extremely short dress.”
This prompts Kathy to join him, rubbing her cheek against his. The young woman stumbles from the car. Duncan circles around and kisses her against the backdrop of the setting sun.
“She’s the fourth, right?” Kathy says, counting on her fingers. “And possibly the youngest.”
“At least she looks old enough to drink.”
A mixture of floral and herbal scents drifts through the air, along with the warmth and humidity of lingering water droplets. Hamid feels the heat coming off Abtin’s skin. “Got a street performance out there?” Abtin is wrapped in a towel tucked under his armpits, exposing his perfectly toned legs.
“Want a bathrobe?” Hamid asks, trying to sound casual.
Abtin shakes his head and parts the blinds slightly. He raises his eyebrows and whistles.
“It’s our neighbor, Duncan,” Kathy explains. “On our moving day, he offered his snowblower. Other than that, we haven’t really talked. His nocturnal escapades are our nightly entertainment.” She yawns. “Anyway, I’m going to change for the night, and you’d better stop gawking at her legs.”
She gives Hamid a peck on the lips and Abtin a kiss on the cheek then leaves them to their voyeurism. Hamid stays transfixed on Duncan and the girl receding into the house. As the lights go out, he senses Abtin’s gaze on him.
Abtin lets the blinds snap shut. “Funny how every couple finds their own way to pass the time.”
There’s something in his tone or look—judgment, perhaps—that unsettles Hamid. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s alone with a half-naked man. Whatever it is, Hamid skulks toward the sofa and turns on the TV, aimlessly flipping through channels, determined to ignore Abtin’s legs.
Kathy’s clogs tap down the stairs, and she soon appears in her usual backless nightdress that leaves as little to the imagination as Abtin’s towel. Hamid suddenly feels overdressed in his jeans and pretends to be engrossed in the news about some European politician’s scandal.
“Look at you, Kat.” Abtin whistles. “The coveted flame of Vancouver. Still got it.”
Hamid had no idea his wife was once known as the flame of Vancouver, or that others shortened her name, Katayoun, to Kat. He’d only ever known her as Kathy.
She waves off the compliment with a blush. “Stop it.”
“It’s a crime against humanity not to paint you.”
Kathy places a hand on her waist, striking a pose. “You keep saying that.”
Abtin raises his palm. “Don’t move.” He rushes to the guest room and returns with a camera and film roll. With dextrous moves, he pops open the back of the camera and loads the film.
“Abtin, I just came to say good night,” Kathy protests, half-seriously.
“Shut up,” Abtin says, absorbed in mounting a long lens and squinting through the viewfinder. “Go toward the stairs. Grab one of the upper spindles—no, that one. Kat, I want to capture your armpit. Voilà.”
Still in his towel, Abtin crouches, bends, twists his torso, and even lies flat on the floor. Hamid decides not to look. He raises the TV volume a notch. He’s caught between wanting and not wanting to hear Abtin’s steady stream of instructions.
“Sit on the lower step. Hug your left knee. Let the straps of your dress fall. Here, let me help.”
There’s murmuring. There are giggles.
Hamid gets up. “Guys, how about I take your picture together?”
Hamid’s hands are interlaced beneath his head. He’s gazing at the crack in the ceiling, listening to the rush of water from the bathroom. Then, he lowers his head to look at his own body all the way to his shriveled-up penis in its transient rubbery home. He feels the need to pee and lets out a slight groan while struggling against the mattress to stand up. The door to the bathroom is half open. He enters, unrolls the condom, and drops it in the toilet. The flush sucks the latex. Dena is in the shower, blurry behind the steamy glass. He watches the parts of her that he can.
“Do you have time to try the new coffee I got?” she asks. “It’s bold and a tad sweet.”
Their first conversation was about coffee and Hamid played along, claiming he was a coffee aficionado, though he couldn’t care less.
“I got all the time in the world,” he says.
“How come you’re so relaxed today? You’re always anxious about her getting suspicious.”
“She’s busy showing Toronto to a friend.”
“A guy friend?”
Hamid nods, though she can’t see. “A gay friend.” He closes the toilet lid and sits on it. He doesn’t want to pee when Dena can catch him at any minute. Urinating in front of each other is one of the unromantic things he regrets about his relationship with Kathy.
Dena turns off the water and pokes her head out. “Sorry, couldn’t hear you. It’s a guy, you said?”
Hamid is distracted by a drop of water hanging from her right nipple. “It’s a man. He’s gay.”
Dena grabs a towel and dries herself haphazardly. “You sound jealous.”
“He’s gay, I said.”
She sits on his lap, stretches her legs as if she’s coming down a slide. Her skin is cold, still wet, and it gives him a jolt.
“I’ve met men jealous of goldfish,” she says.
“It’s not jealousy. It’s the way she’s comfortable with him, with his body, or her body. I’ve never seen her like that. Not even with me.”
Dena drapes her arm around his neck. “Is it like you and me?”
Toronto was the first Canadian city Abtin ever lived in, but when Hamid and Kathy hesitantly suggest sightseeing on Saturday, he jumps at the idea. “It was so long ago—a different time, a different me,” he says.
In the car, Abtin sits in the middle of the backseat like a restless kid who wants to be close to both his parents. He sings along to any random music his Spotify plays in the car. They check off the usual sites: the CN Tower, St. Lawrence Market, the Distillery District, the waterfront, the Beaches neighborhood. Abtin seems to find a way to enjoy every minute. He strikes up conversations with strangers, takes pictures of even the most mundane sights. He doesn’t mind stalling his companions to find the perfect frame and ideal lighting. When he spots the famous heart sculpture in the Distillery District, weighed down with love locks, he insists that Hamid and Kathy pose for a picture.
“It’s too touristy,” Hamid says.
Abtin fiddles with his phone to find the right angle. “A first-gen immigrant is a perpetual tourist.” Then, he studies their pose—Hamid’s hand looped around Kathy’s waist, her eyes dreamily looking up. “Good, now a French kiss.”
Hamid glances around, checking to see if anyone’s watching. It feels easier to concede to Abtin’s demands than to resist. When they kiss, Hamid realizes it’s been quite a while since he last kissed his wife with presence of mind.
At dusk, they call it a day. On the way back, Abtin falls eerily quiet, his ball of energy deflated. When Hamid turns to their street, Abtin bursts into tears. He doesn’t answer Kathy’s questions, only waves his hand and keeps apologizing. She reaches for the tissues in the glovebox and offers it to him. Hamid watches him in the mirror.
When they pull into the driveway, Kathy leaps from the car and helps Abtin to the house, as if delivering him to a hospital. She hangs her arm around his shoulder and ushers him through the door.
Duncan is mowing the lawn. He turns off the machine and walks toward Hamid, dragging the lawnmower behind him.
“Your guest all right?”
Hamid peers at his door. “Yeah. Kathy’s college friend from Vancouver. He’s recently broken up with his…partner.”
“Something must be dreadfully wrong with me, then,” Duncan says and laughs. “I didn’t shed a tear over my divorce.” His guffaw morphs into howls. Hamid doesn’t find it particularly funny, but he joins his neighbor’s display of glee the best he can.
Duncan falls silent, his brows drawing into a serious expression. “Tell you what. Next time I have a bimbo over, I’ll invite your friend. A spit roast is the cure for all the miseries of mankind.”
Hamid doesn’t know what spit roast means, but he nods along, hoping it’s a joke.
When Hamid was seven years old, he stormed home, sobbing. His mother dropped the plate she was drying and rushed over, kneeling to his level. “What happened?” she asked.
Some neighborhood boys had bullied him. They hadn’t hit him—just curses, humiliations, and a few shoves before he found an opening to run. His mother asked why—as if there had to be a reason for kids to bully other kids.
As she wiped his face with a napkin, his three sisters huddled in a corner and his father towered over them, dressed impeccably in his usual dress shirt and slacks, even at home. Hamid lowered his head, afraid of his father’s unforgiving stare.
“Look at me!” his father demanded. “Aren’t you a man? Why are you crying?” His lips curled in disdain. He raised his hands and mimicked someone crying, rubbing his eyes with exaggerated motions. “Ay, ay, ay!”
Hamid didn’t dare meet his father’s eyes. Instead, he focused on his three giggling sisters who fell quiet only when their mother hushed them. This image stayed with him. Years later, when he watched The Godfather, the scene where Don Corleone mocks his godson’s tears made everyone in the room laugh, but not him. Hamid just remembered that moment with his father.
On Monday, after work, Hamid grabs his gym bag and takes the elevator to the lobby. There, seated in the corner of a long sofa is Abtin. Upon seeing Hamid, Abtin grins. Hamid leans back, as if dodging a frisbee. How the hell did Abtin know where his office was?
Abtin hefts himself from the couch and walks toward him. “How about you skip the gym today and have dinner with me?”
“And Kathy?”
“I told her I’m meeting an old friend.” He gestures toward the gym bag. “And you already have your alibi.”
The first thing that crosses Hamid’s mind is that it’s a conspiracy. Kathy wants to tell him something through Abtin. Several other possibilities hover, but he doesn’t want to linger. “There’s a pub nearby—”
“I know a place,” Abtin interrupts. “Where’s your car?”
In the car, the radio plays through the week’s top ten songs. They listen absentmindedly, neither saying a word. Hamid hopes they won’t run out of songs—the weight of being alone together hangs heavily in the car.
When Hamid turns to Yonge Street, Abtin lowers the volume. “I spent almost a year in a refugee camp in Izmir. When my claim was approved, the UN sent me to Canada. The restaurant we’re going to was the first place that offered me a job. I wanted to visit, see how things are going. Destiny chose you as my companion.”
You chose me as your companion, Hamid wants to say, but Abtin points out the window at the restaurant. On Abtin’s instruction, Hamid parks in front of Donatello, an Italian restaurant with beautiful, arched windows. Except for a large table in the middle, the rest of the restaurant is occupied by parties of two—men and women, young and old—seated at tables with white tablecloths and candles. Abtin and Hamid are the only male duo in the restaurant.
Abtin flips open the menu, leafing through the choices. “So, it’s our first date—I guess we’re going Dutch?”
Hamid feels the weight of Abtin’s gaze and lets out a laugh more emphatic than necessary.
Abtin extends his hand and squeezes Hamid’s shoulder. “I was kidding.”
The waitress materializes, giving Hamid a momentary reprieve. He orders a glass of Malbec, and Abtin asks for the same. What a cute couple, Hamid imagines the waitress thinking—not a far-fetched idea with Abtin’s shimmering shirt and soft voice.
“What are we celebrating?” she asks.
Abtin raises his empty glass. “Friendship.”
Pleased, or so acting, the waitress scuttles away.
“Amazing how nothing has changed in twelve years. Except for the staff,” Abtin says, his eyes darting around. “I was so hopeful and dreamy back then. The door to opportunity had just opened.” Hamid glances at his phone and feels a bit ashamed when Abtin taps the table and says, “Of course, the time. You’re not here to hear about the aspirations of a queer man.”
That was too direct, even for Abtin. Hamid drops his chin to his chest. “That’s not it. I just don’t know what we’re doing here.”
The wine arrives. Abtin downs half his glass before the waitress is even out of sight. “Yeah, I’m not your favorite person.”
Hamid coughs, then laughs harder than he intended. “What makes you say that?”
“Come on! We’re from the same country. You were raised to believe that people like me are the embodiment of sin. You were taught to hate me. I used to hate me. So don’t deny it. Besides, let’s face it. I’ve seen you looking at Duncan. He’s the kinda man you adore. Masculine. Clooney-esque. If we were rabbits, his line would’ve undoubtedly survived.”
Hamid feels a drop of sweat falling down his temple. He flicks it away as if swatting a fly. “He’s more of an interesting anthropological curiosity.”
“Anthro—” Abtin scoffs, turning to a nearby man seated across from a woman and repeating anthropological curiosity, jerking his thumb back at Hamid, but the man is too engrossed in charming his date to notice.
To Hamid, Abtin seems agitated. From what Hamid understood, Abtin was always social and expressive, but now his gestures feel like an attempt to ease tension, to smooth the edges. Hamid wonders if it’s the wine. “Abtin,” he starts, “I know the whole world spills its secrets for you. But I’m not the type to gossip in circles.”
“I know. Tonight, I’ll spill.”
The waitress appears to take the main orders. Hamid chooses spaghetti—the first familiar name on the menu. Abtin is picky, grilling the waitress with questions before settling on Tortellini alla Borina.
Hamid gestures to Abtin’s glass, now nearly empty. “Looks like my friend could use a refill.” Hamid feels in charge now. He’s the one ordering drinks for the man who caught him by a surprise visit—a shift of power.
“Tell me about your breakup, then,” Hamid says with newfound confidence when the waitress leaves.
“Javier? Hard, no doubt. But it was the aftermath of a bigger tragedy.” Abtin twists the corner of the tablecloth into a ring. “I have terminal cancer.”
“Oh!” Hamid feels hot, his mouth turns dry. It’s his turn to take a long swig of wine. He was supposed to have an uncomplicated day at the gym, burning calories on a treadmill, not comforting someone about to die. Their eyes meet briefly, and Hamid fears Abtin might burst into tears. Then, he resents himself for such a pitiful, shallow concern.
“What kind? Maybe… Is it at—” The words spill from Hamid’s mouth until Abtin raises a hand, cutting him off.
“Save the placating. Pancreas. Past stage three.”
Hamid places his hands on the table, leans forward. “Does Kathy know?”
“Couldn’t tell her. The longer you keep something like this a secret, the harder it gets to share.”
Sorrow rises like bile in Hamid’s throat. “Why tell me?”
“You’re the next best thing to Kathy.” Abtin adopts a talk-show host voice: “Congratulations, you’re officially my confidante. How’s that for an anthropological curiosity?” The quiver in his voice undermines his grin.
Hamid can’t explain what he does next. Did it come from living with someone for a week? Or knowing that someone you care about will lose someone she cares about? Whatever it is, he finds himself covering Abtin’s hand with his own, squeezing hard like he doesn’t want to let him go. He wonders if his father would approve—is it okay to touch a gay man if he’s mortally sick? Dad might permit a few tears.
Abtin’s tone softens. “Tell her when I’m gone. It’ll make for a good excuse to talk. I notice you two don’t do it much.”
The waitress is back with their meals. She must sense their tension because she places the food in front of them without sparing words and leaves. Hamid withdraws his hand and curls it around his fork. “What’s it you’re hinting at?”
“I’m not hinting. I’m saying it. Kathy is precious. Don’t break her heart. She’s happy with you, but do you know what the problem is?” He doesn’t wait for Hamid to answer. “The problem is that the same people who have the power to lift you up with a few words can also crush you just as fast.” He spears three dumplings with his fork. “Do you know what she said the moment we met at the airport?” Hamid shakes his head. “She asked if I had a pink T-shirt in my bag.”
“You were wearing one.”
Abtin takes his time chewing his pasta. “Not until she asked me to put it on.”
At the airport the next day, Abtin wears the same pink T-shirt—a reminder to Hamid of how much his wife cares for him. After saying his farewell, Hamid steps back to give Kathy and Abtin a moment. And, if he happened to check Dena’s incoming messages, so what? He was supposed to rendezvous with her while Kathy saw Abtin off, but after the conversation at the Italian restaurant, he decided to stay with his wife. He knew the one-sided cancellation would invite Dena’s ire. There’s indeed a sequence of messages, minutes apart:
It’s just a friend leaving, not dying
I can’t believe I cooked for you
You want to call it off?
The whole thing?
Hamid imagines Dena in her new lingerie—she buys a set every time they meet—brewing a new coffee. He knows he can’t reciprocate her feelings. He also knows the only reason he goes along with this charade is a deep-seated urge to have women around—his way of proving he’s a man in control. He’s self-aware. . He doesn’t need someone like Abtin to work his magic and figure him out. For Abtin, one look was enough to unravel Hamid’s puzzle, his vulnerabilities, fears, and complexes. But Hamid already knows his faults.
Hamid lifts his phone and types no, erases it, types yes, and erases it, too.
A few meters away, Abtin grabs his carry-on and enters security. Kathy follows him with her eyes, giving Hamid enough time to delete Dena’s notifications. He doesn’t want to be disturbed, at least for now. Only when Abtin disappears in the serpentine line does Kathy turn on her heels and step toward Hamid. More than ever, she resembles that girl in the painting. Forlorn and abandoned.
On the way back from the airport, Kathy and Hamid are as silent as they were a week ago when they picked up Abtin. This time, Hamid is at the wheel—a conscious decision on his part. He didn’t want Kathy driving if he decided to share the grim news. But the deeper they delve into the deadlock on the 427, the harder it gets to even consider telling her.
“They’ll deliver the chest and love seat tomorrow,” Kathy says.
Kathy and Abtin went shopping during the week. He picked the furniture from Pier 1. He thought the pieces had an antique feel, and Kathy agreed with him. Hamid approved their selection with a quick look at the pictures they texted him. He didn’t think much of it at the time, but he’s now preoccupied with the finality of an imminent day when they’ll slump into the loveseat and Abtin will be gone.
“Good,” he murmurs.
“Did you find out if he’s a top or a bottom?” she asks.
For a moment, he fails to process. Signaling a lane change, he glances at Kathy. She’s smiling, almost grinning. It’s beautiful, so beautiful he dreads violating the moment.
“No, but I learned a whole lot about him.”
He expects to hear her say, Like what?, which would provide an opening, but silence settles again. The cars inch forward. They’re going so slow, it can’t just be the normal rush hour traffic. Must be an accident. The universe urges him to tell her now—to tell her everything and get it over with. From the look of it, he has all the time in the world.
MEHDI M. KASHANI lives and writes in Toronto, Canada. His fiction has recently appeared in EVENT, Southern Humanities Review, and Post Road, among others. His work has been a finalist for Canada’s National Magazine Awards and shortlisted for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize.
Featured Image by Jason Leung, courtesy of Unsplash.
