The Distance Between
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 2
LEILA
It was still early when I stepped into the kitchen, but the kettle was already hissing on the stove. Maman stood at the counter with her back to me, slicing cucumbers with quick, sure movements. She wore her usual morning scarf—loose, floral, more for habit than modesty.
“Morning,” I said, tying my hair back into a loose bun.
She glanced over her shoulder with a smile. “I was wondering if you were going to sleep the day away.”
“It’s barely eight,” I said, kissing her cheek. “That’s not sleeping in. That’s being civilized.”
She clicked her tongue but her smile lingered. “Tea is almost ready. Grab the bread from the drawer.”
I reached for the soft barbari from yesterday—still good if warmed up a little—and slid it onto a plate. The morning light through the window hit the tiles just right, turning the kitchen gold. This was my favorite time of day, before Baba came in with his newspaper and long silences, before Omid showed up and made everything feel like a debate waiting to happen.
Maman poured tea into two glass cups, added a sugar cube to hers, and passed mine without asking. She knew how I liked it. We sat at the table, and for a few minutes, the only sound was the soft clink of spoons and the hum of the city starting outside.
“I heard from Nasrin,” Maman said after a while.
My cousin. Of course.
“She says you’ve been turning down introductions.”
I sipped my tea. “I didn’t ask her to find me anyone.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
She sighed. “You’re twenty-five. It’s not that I want to push you. But you can’t just wait forever. Eventually people will stop asking.”
“That would be a dream come true,” I muttered.
She gave me the look. I looked away.
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” I said, gentler this time. “I just ... I want something different. I want someone I can talk to. Really talk to. Not someone who sees me as a box to check.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “I know you’re not like everyone else.”
I looked at her. “Is that a bad thing?”
She smiled faintly, but didn’t answer.
Baba came in then, smelling of cologne and fresh air, already dressed for the day. He nodded a greeting, his eyes glancing at my hair before settling on the paper at the end of the table. I adjusted the collar of my top, just in case.
“You’re going in today?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “The agency has me working on a tourism brochure. A hotel in Qeshm.”
“Tourism,” he muttered. “Things we used to care about.”
Maman slid a plate of cheese and herbs toward him and said nothing.
A few minutes later, Omid arrived. As always, the energy in the room changed with him. My older brother had a way of walking in like he was entering a courtroom—ready to question, challenge, correct. He was polite, always. But polite like a sword wrapped in velvet.
“Leila,” he said, settling into the seat across from me. “I saw what you posted yesterday. That quote.”
I stiffened. “It was just a quote.”
“A woman who wants to be ‘the author of her own story’?” he quoted, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds like Western propaganda to me.”
I forced a smile. “It was from a book. A novel. You know, fiction?”
“Fiction still has consequences,” he said. “You think ideas don’t shape people?”
I wanted to say: That’s the point. Ideas shape people. But I didn’t.
Instead, I stood, taking my plate to the sink. “I’m going to be late.”
Maman looked at me with something between sympathy and warning. Baba had returned to his newspaper. Omid sipped his tea like a man who’d won a minor battle.
In my room, I dressed quickly—navy pants, long tunic, scarf in soft gray. Conservative enough to please, but still mine. I glanced at my desk, where my English books sat stacked neatly beside a half-finished novel I was translating. Jane Austen, of all things. Maman didn’t quite understand my love of English literature. Omid didn’t even try. But I liked the way those stories unfolded. The wit, the tension, the hope tucked inside dialogue.
I grabbed my bag and headed out.
On the street, the air was already warming. I walked with purpose, earbuds in but not playing anything. Sometimes I just liked the quiet illusion of being elsewhere.
I passed the bakery on the corner, waved at Masoud, who always greeted me like an old friend. I stopped briefly to grab a small shirini for later, wrapped carefully in paper. Just a sweet to get through the day.
At work, I would sit at my desk with my translation open, sipping lukewarm tea and watching the words shift from one world into another. It was a kind of magic, really. A quiet resistance. A way to imagine something more.
I didn’t know it yet, but I was soon to meet someone who would make me see things differently. Not just outside, but inside, too.
The smell of grilled saffron chicken hit me half a block before I reached the stand. My stomach answered with an impatient growl. I picked up my pace, weaving through the early evening foot traffic, dodging a boy on a bike and an old man selling socks from a blanket.
Darya was already there, leaning against the metal counter, arms crossed, scarf sliding halfway off her curls. She wore her usual expression of mild defiance, softened only by the way she grinned when she saw me.
“Five minutes late,” she said, holding up her phone like a stopwatch. “I was beginning to think you finally got married off to that dentist your cousin keeps pushing.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’d sooner marry a tree.”
She laughed, looping her arm through mine as we placed our orders—two wraps and a side of pickled vegetables, extra torshi for her, always. We moved off to the side to wait, where the smoke from the grill swirled up into the warm evening air, mingling with the scent of car exhaust and fresh herbs.
“I swear this place is half the reason I haven’t moved to Tehran,” Darya said. “The food in this city is the only thing that still makes sense.”
“You could learn to cook,” I teased.
“I could learn to build a rocket, too, but I choose not to.”
We found an empty bench a few steps away, close enough to hear our number when it was called. The sky was turning pink above the rooftops, fading into a soft orange that made everything look gentle for a moment—like even the city was trying to be kind.
“How’s work?” I asked, unwrapping the edge of my sandwich.
Darya sighed. “The usual. I spent half the day arguing with a male editor who insisted the protagonist of a novel we’re publishing ‘shouldn’t be so emotional.’ She watched her sister drown. What does he want her to do, bake a cake?”
I smiled. “Maybe she could cry quietly in the kitchen, like a proper role model.”
“That’s the dream,” she said, rolling her eyes. “How about you? Still trapped in translation?”
I nodded. “Tourism brochure this week. You know, sun-soaked coastlines and five-star illusions.”
“At least you get to bend the truth for a living,” she said. “I just have to read men’s opinions all day.”