Chapter 3

ELIAS

The air smelled like grilled onions, cumin, and just a hint of engine exhaust. Perfect.

I crossed the street toward the food stand, the one with the yellow awning that had already become a minor obsession. The guy behind the counter worked like a machine—wrapping sandwiches in thin wax paper, flipping meat with one hand and grabbing bills with the other. I liked the energy here. It felt honest.

There was a small crowd tonight, and I fell into line behind a pair of women already mid-conversation. One wore a pale green headscarf, loose and pushed back a little, revealing wisps of dark hair. The other had hers wrapped tighter, but she was laughing as she spoke, her hand moving expressively in the air.

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but my Farsi was still barely there, and trying to decipher words distracted me from how hungry I was. I caught something about a coworker being a “walking disaster,” then the word for editor, then laughter again.

The line moved. I stepped forward.

When I reached the counter, the guy glanced at me, already impatient. I froze.

“What’ll it be?” he said in Farsi.

I hesitated, my brain suddenly forgetting every food word I’d learned. I blinked at the handwritten menu taped to the cart, trying to decode it like it was a secret message.

Next to me, I heard a voice—sharp, friendly.

“You should get the koobideh sandwich,” said the woman in the green headscarf. “It’s the best thing here. Unless you’re vegetarian, in which case ... I’m sorry.”

I turned. She smiled. Her tone was playful, like we already knew each other.

Before I could thank her, the other woman—the one with the tighter scarf—tilted her head slightly. “He doesn’t look vegetarian.”

I laughed before I could stop myself. “You’re right,” I said. “Koobideh it is.”

I ordered in slow Farsi, then stepped aside as the vendor got to work. The two women stayed close, waiting for their food too.

“I’m Darya,” said the first one—the bold one. “And this is Leila.”

“Elias,” I said, offering a small wave. “Nice to meet you both.”

Leila nodded, a polite smile on her lips, but her eyes didn’t look away. There was something quietly observant about her, like she was cataloging the moment, deciding what to make of me. It wasn’t intimidating. Just ... arresting.

“Are you a tourist?” Darya asked.

“Not quite. I live here. At least for now.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Really? What do you do?”

“I just started at a language institute. Teaching English. Business English, mostly.”

That caught Leila’s attention. She shifted slightly toward me. “So, you’re a teacher?”

“I used to teach high school back home,” I said. “Language arts. But I got tired of ... well, everything. Now I’m here.”

“What made you choose Iran?” Darya asked, clearly intrigued.

I smiled. “A friend of mine—a professor—told me about the opportunity. And I guess I’ve always wanted to see this part of the world. Thought I’d do something different for a while.”

Leila looked like she wanted to say something. Her fingers tightened a little on the edge of the counter, then loosened again. Her mouth opened, then closed. I waited, curious. But she only nodded.

“And you two?” I asked. “What do you do?”

“I work in publishing,” Darya said. “Books, mostly. Editing, layout, trying to make things sound smarter than they are.”

“I do translation,” Leila added quietly. “Mostly Persian to English. Sometimes vice versa.”

“That’s impressive,” I said.

“It’s work,” she replied, but there was a hint of pride in her voice.

Our orders were called. We stepped aside with our wrapped sandwiches, standing near one of the tall metal tables bolted into the sidewalk. People moved around us—cars, kids, motorbikes weaving through the darkening street—but for a few minutes, it felt like just the three of us.