Maybe he was honor-bound to lock us in, by some imagined duty? Perhaps this was an Islamic preparation to make us contended wives? Were these locks supposed to dampen useless dreams that sparked needless desires? Or, was he a mad man, sick and demented?

I'm insane. I'll admit that. I have that awful condition: cleithrophobia. Father knew all of this, of course, but nowadays he never asks direct questions. I was determined to show him the world outside should be invited in--celebrated. I had every intention of doing the same thing tomorrow, and all nights thereafter, until he conceded, or, I made my escape to gay Paree.

Some people have described Ava as religiously non-observant, but I think she's starved for love. She must have been deprived in her youth. That's why she acts out. Deep down, she didn't have a good opinion of herself. Not that she's perfect. I just think she could use a hug.

The orphanage taught their girls religious ritual to the Nth degree, and how to make their own clothes. Giti mended uniforms for the soldiers and even sold a few prayer rugs in the marketplace. Self-sufficiency they called it. Ha!

After we sat, Ava glared sidelong at Giti. 'Sorry I slap you last week, but I did not think you would ever stop talking, and I had somewhere to go.' Then, with a quick toss of her head, 'Bad day.

I sized her up and got this sick feeling that she was about to ruin everything. Giti never missed an opportunity to show up her superiors. I stopped dead in my tracks and patted her down for a hidden prayer rug. No religious drama was too outrageous for her.

Although my words were temperate and well-expressed, they seemed to repulse Ava. My timing has never been precise. Ava regarded me the way a widow spider examines a housefly. She laughed loudly, a vulgar Occidental laugh, the laugh of a person who wraps their next meal in silk before draining their lifeblood. But, I have been known to imagine things.

A boorish laborer of some type emerged from a crowd of timid Coke-drinking men. He moved toward us with the wide menacing stance of a wrestler, black glistening hair, jutting like straight shards from beneath a Pashtun cap. Strong as an acre of garlic. He stared at me with an undignified glimmer in his eye that I wished wasn't there.

Iran. Hot for certainties, but all us women get are rhymes. Always a metaphor; always a clever turn of phrase; always quoting poets without giving a direct answer. Give us definitive wedding dates. That's certainty! Those are the certainties we ache for--as certain as the sunlight that our sun-loving botany aches for.