Some Messed Up Form of Closure
Written by Baran Rostamian, Illustrated by Ev Swindale - July 30th, 2020
I abduct my hand from the warmth of my pocket and lay my palm upon the cool surface of the heavy wooden door standing slightly ajar. I let it rest there for just a moment, before I push. Stepping through the familiar doorway, I greet my parents and their friends, one kiss per cheek, a blur of hugs and handshakes. I introduce my friend V as a girl from school.
“The rest are out by the fire,” they say “but come and have dinner first!”
The food forces its way down my throat like rubber. I chew quickly, listening to their droning. The kids, how are they goin’ with uni? And your parents, they in good health? Still in Esfahan? Yes, the sanctions are back… The dollar’s gone up again, just last week we had a house and now we have half a house… All that these bloody Mullah’s know is sitting on their fat asses while the country goes to shit – sorry – even further to shit…Trump? Oh, God, what’s that fucker said this time… My hands are clammy; the cool cutlery slipping through my fingers, forcing me to hold tighter and tighter.
It’s been a while since we’ve all been here. Together. Like this. Dad, fiddling with the salt; Aunty D, twitching and constantly glancing at her deadbeat husband who won’t take his eyes off the bloody TV. My bitten fingernails make the shiny pink skin beneath them sting. I ask for another slice of lemon, please. Mum’s sitting opposite me. Passing it, she looks up from her plate and smiles. Her lips pulled tightly. Her eyes vacant.
“I really love that colour on you,” she says.
I’m suddenly conscious of the synthetic fabric of my dress grazing against my skin, the statement hanging in the air until it crashes to the floor, heads all around the table nodding in a painfully synchronized rhythm. I squeeze the lemon wedge until the last drop of juice bleeds into the food and my fist starts to shake, fingertips searing. My head throbs.
We climb the outdoor staircase leading to the roof and step up into a din of bad jazz and overlapping voices and midnight air.
I greet everyone.
I introduce V.
I know five of the twelve or so people crowded around the firepit and seem to recognise two others.
Q is a childhood friend, two years younger than me, sits there awkwardly having the air of a son who’s been dragged here by his mother but is too embarrassed to explain that, because a) it would be rude and, b) even worse, it would confirm he still lets himself be dragged places by his mother. He’s dyed his hair red this time, wearing those silly plaid pants he loves so much, trying desperately to look… well, I don’t actually know what he was going for this time. He’s with a boy he always introduces as his friend even though everyone knows they’re in love. Sitting side by side on plastic patio chairs, just inches apart. Kept separate by heavy tendrils of smoke snaking out from the billowing fire, weaving forcefields into the frigid midnight air. There’s some family among the friends.
M and T are siblings and they live here too, but they’re barely ever home. Both are a few years older than me. We refer to each other’s parents as Aunty and Uncle. They’ve all been friends for years. Since before they immigrated. Since before we were born. M’s the daughter, younger and more successful – it’s been about two years since she got her law degree. Fancies herself a real hotshot spending her life telling people how to minimise their tax bill; still seems to think she’s headed for the High Court. Tonight she’s wearing a high-necked, sleeveless dress in a deep red. Her cheeks are flushed, dangly silver earrings spill down onto her collarbones. I watch her animated expressions. She’s performing, wine glass in hand. Her lipstick’s smudged downwards a little on the left side of her mouth.
T has always been described as easily distracted by partying and booze and girls, whatever that’s supposed to mean. My mum never shuts up about how he won’t stop jumping from branch to branch and how she doubts he’ll ever fucking finish his degree. He’s wearing black jeans and a thin white t-shirt. I know he wants to look like he doesn’t care but I can tell from the fabric that it’s new. Unshaven but not unkempt, stubble evenly covers his jaw. Despite it being summer he’s paler than the last time I saw him. I notice he’s pierced his ears again. Small black hoops.
M and T. Despite their differences in character they’ve got the same high cheekbones. The same olive skin. The same dark, wavy hair. I distinctly remember being a child and thinking they were both so effortlessly cool. M’s boyfriend is here. He’s glad they’re all speaking English because he knows next to no Farsi. I know Aunty D isn’t too happy about that because she knows next to no English. No, it’s not that – he’s just got such a bloody strong Russian accent that she gets confused and they often find themselves playing uncomfortable (infuriating) games of charades together. She once told me she doesn’t know where to put him – in her heart, that is. It’s as though he doesn’t fit anywhere. At least not yet.
I sit down and grab a beer. More for something to do, since I don’t actually like beer that much. I start explaining to V who everyone is for the second time and I think she can sense that I’m uncomfortable, but I can see in her eyes she doesn’t think it’s the right time to ask me why.
Moments pass and T asks me how I am, asks me how I know my friend. I explain and mention we’ve just come from a party, hence the attire.
“Oh, I thought you’d just dressed up for me,” he says, “so is that the cover story?” he winks and I roll my eyes.
V seems to actually find this funny. I catch myself wondering what’s wrong with her. I must just be tired.
She finally asks T about the lilt in his voice and isn’t he Iranian and didn’t he grow up here?
I wince.
He tells some bogus story about when he moved here – about his high school friends being Scottish and somehow, accidentally managing to pick it up from them when he was learning English. I wonder who he’s really lying to. I know he’s drunk his liver to a stone but surely he’s not quite dumb enough to believe himself yet.
Right on cue he lights a cigarette and takes a casual drag. Tilting his head back he blows the smoke upwards, each ritualistic movement all too familiar. Sacred. Sinful.
I picture him some months ago brandishing his cigarette.
My eyes flutter open to caramel sun streaming in through a window, illuminating the floating dust and making it golden. I savour the bitter air, extending a bare arm from within the warm cocoon of blankets and running my fingers slowly along the cool glass and ridges of the window frame.
I stop myself.
“You shouldn’t do that, you know. You’ll get lung cancer,” says V.
I cringe in anticipation, already knowing what T’s about to pull.
“Good,” he replies, baring his teeth.
V is shocked but only at first. She easily gives into it, letting herself be charmed. I see it in her eyes. Hear it in her chuckle. I take a sip from my beer and try to look preoccupied.
I tell V I need to use the bathroom and I go inside. Slump over the tap. A hand on either side of the sink. I briefly lean my whole body weight down, palms pressing into the cool porcelain, then push myself off and manage to stand. My head spins for a second but I don’t lose balance. I make a face in the mirror before I leave.
I’ve taken two steps down the corridor and he’s there. Standing opposite me like an apparition. For a second our eyes meet. Gazes feebly lying to one another, acting like we haven’t discovered every square inch of skin flowing beneath each other’s clothes a dozen times before. The weight of pretence slowly crushes into me from every which way. I remind myself to exhale.
I sense that he wants to talk to me but I won’t give him the chance. Throwing my head down I squeeze past him, armed only with a tight-lipped smile. His arm gently knocks mine and I feel like I could crumble.
“Sorry.”
He’s sorry, and I wonder if he means for this collision or for the one in the past.
Without asking, I let my feet carry me briskly away.
Carry me back to a din of bad jazz and overlapping voices and midnight air.
"Some Messed Up Form of Closure" was loosely inspired by people I’ve observed, be it briefly or over a decade; but also inspired by the internal war we sometimes experience when consciously deciding to move on without closure, when forcing ourselves to simply walk away. I drew from my own internal and external struggles, as the weight of social forces seemed to collide with the shift from adolescence into adulthood.
- Baran Rostamian