Page 36 of Like a Love Story
“You can make billions these days. The important thing is building a strong brand name. Because then you are not just selling clothes. You are selling a lifestyle. And when you are selling a lifestyle, you can sell anything. Perfume. Linens. Candles.”
“Oh wow,” I say, laughing. “You think really big.”
“So do you,” Saadi says, with a smile. “Obviously.”
I flinch a little. Asshole. I know it’s a crack about my weight.
Don’t take the bait, Judy.
“I’m glad you noticed,” I say, shooting him daggers with my eyes.
“Calvin Klein is a perfect example,” Abbas says. “He makes most of his money from underwear and perfume now, and how much work does it take to design underwear?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve, um, never designed underwear.”
“Maybe you should,” Saadi says. “Reza could be your model.”
Reza blushes. This dinner is getting weird fast.
“Of course you should,” Abbas says. “If you want to be a billionaire.”
“My dad’s all about the money,” Saadi says. “If you can’t tell.”
“It is just exciting to see a young person who knows what she wants to do,” Abbas says, with a stern look toward his son that speaks volumes. “Perhaps it’s time you started thinking about what interests you professionally.”
“I have a little time,” Saadi replies, his mouth full.
“The operative word there islittle,” Abbas says. “We all have a little time, and we should do our best with it.”
“I think the decor of this restaurant is so exciting,” Mina says, her attempt at changing the subject both obvious and awkward.
Mercifully, some food arrives, and it smells so delicious and fragrant. I watch as plates of noodles, dumplings, chicken skewers, and Chinese broccoli are placed in front of us. I think of all those times I’ve been out to restaurants with Art, and how annoying it is that he won’t eat meat or anything that touches it, and how, as always, I need to modulate what I want for him. Mina insists I serve myself first, and I do, filling my plate up withfood. Soon, we’re all eating, and the conversation turns to a variety of subjects, from the Central Park Five to what my favorite classes at school are to how I feel about wearing a uniform when I’m so into fashion to Iranian politics. Reza barely speaks. I mean, he says a few words here and there. Ayesor anoor athat’s delicious, but he doesn’t contribute many complete sentences. I wonder if he’s always this quiet around his family or if it’s just tonight.
In the middle of the meal, two men enter and sit at the table next to us. One of them is skin and bones. There’s a dark lesion on his upper neck. He nods toward our table as he sits, almost in apology, like he’s sorry for subjecting us to his illness in the middle of an otherwise pleasant dinner. Abbas and Mina smile politely, but in a glacial and forced way. Saadi almost sneers. Reza just looks scared. Which reminds me of how, in the two months since we started dating, he hasn’t come over to Uncle Stephen’s once. I’ve invited him to Sunday movie night multiple times, and each time he has some excuse about why he can’t come. He has some plan with his family, or he’s behind on homework, or he’s got a stomachache. I’m pretty sure the real reason is that he doesn’t want to hang out with someone who has AIDS, but I haven’t pressed him on that point yet. I guess I don’t want the answer. Because if he tells me that’s the reason, it might make me fall a little out of love with him.
When the two men sit down, I smile extra big atthem, trying to compensate for anyone making them feel unwelcome or shut out. But even my smile probably bugs them. I’m still giving them special attention, treating them like they’re somehow different, singling them out, and I immediately feel bad about that. That’s when I feel something on my knee. Reza’s hand. I hook my fingers into his, and he clasps onto me under the table, giving my hand a squeeze. I don’t know what the squeeze means, but I think he knows what I was thinking when this man walked in. I turn toward Reza and smile, and that’s when he whispers, “You have some food in your teeth.”
“Oh God, gross.” I run my tongue around my teeth, then smile at him.
“Still there,” he says.
I put my napkin on the table. “I’ll be right back,” I say, trying hard to keep my mouth closed as I speak.
On my way to the bathroom, I smile at the man with AIDS again.Stop it, Judy. But then I realize it’s not just him I’m smiling at. I’m smiling at everybody. I smile at the woman speaking rapid French to her girlfriends. I smile at the man with the Tom Selleck mustache, who may actually be Tom Selleck, come to think of it. When I get to the bathroom, one of them is out of order. I turn the doorknob of the functional bathroom and it’s locked. A female voice from inside calls out, “Yeah, I’m in here.”
“Sorry,” I call out. And then, I add, “Um, take your time.”
As if that isn’t awkward enough, when I turn back,I run right into Saadi. “Personally, I think pooping in public bathrooms is rude,” he says, smirking.
“Um, you’re gross,” I say.
“What do you think people do in bathrooms?” he asks. “Design underwear?”
I don’t even respond to that. We stand against the hallway wall for a few seconds, and then he says, “Wow, that person is really taking their time. I hope they light a match when they’re done.”
“You know we don’t need to talk,” I say.
“So what’s the deal with you and the little prince?” he asks.
