A Windy Evening In The Market Square.

Of course it would be very nice if she could be there waiting at the gate with a smile that could lift you up a hundred feet above the crowd of passengers that have just gotten off the plane and now scrambling for the luggage on the carousel as if there's a grand prize for being the first to get a hand on a suitcase that belongs to you. It's the odd that would never come up in a million years but there's nothing wrong in being a hopeless romantic when you are alone in a country like this. Or to wish with everything I hold sacred for the girl I used to know long time ago to appear behind the arrival lounge of an airport to welcome me in Persian; the language I will never acquire, not in a million years because Persian doesn't sound the same spoken by anyone else, and as far as I'm concerned Tehran is not Tehran until I meet Baitool.

And here I am all alone still hoping for that chance that I'd meet her walking down the street on her way to a perfume shop in her chador, looking as captivating as a Persian girl should be on the last day of Ramadan 1428. It's crazy to harbor such hope but miracle does happen and I'm hoping for a slice of miracle to happen to me right here in the busiest corner of a market square, at this very minute.