In an uncategorizable dream, she was in a doctor’s office. The doctor had dyed black hair and didn’t use gloves for the pelvic examination. The room was full of rotting food. Then she was home and opening an envelope, and inside the envelope was a check for $100,000. 

You turn to see if he’s watching, if he’s afraid that you’ll leave, but can’t tell either way. Your jeans held your ass differently on hormones. You wonder if he can tell the difference.

Out in the field Mbye saw somebody just barely there, a shirtless old man, as black as Mbye, with his trousers rolled up, who looked at him without curiosity.

There is some pain, but there always is, needles weaving in and out of the changing tissue and skin. This pain is bearable, at least. Just a nose, completely superficial. My nose is her nose, thirty seconds later.

I took a deep breath, which did absolutely nothing, and stormed out of the bathroom. Then I made a beeline for the mirrored triangle bar and ordered myself a Long Island iced tea. No one here cared how old I was.

But something is wrong with these coots. Why are they moving so strangely?

For Jahangir, a patriotic and pious man, every rule of Allah and law of the state was enforceable and unquestionable. Laws against holding hands. Laws against kissing. Laws against sex. Laws that made living a secret and Ali Reza a sought-after man.

Obviously, she says, I can’t come to the hill anymore. Don’t make that face! I’m not welcome anymore.

Everybody gets old, Grandma always says. Everybody withers.