Growing up, I was always mesmerized by one of my mother’s best friends; she had hair the colour of wine, lips the colour of blood, and she smoked Marlboro reds— always. She would smoke before, during, and after food. The smoking was so sexy I decided to smoke when I grew up. (Who would’ve thought smoking is so bad).
My ambiguous infatuation with her developed as I became more of a woman. Remembering her smoky voice telling stories, I grew to respect her candid conversations, unabashed sexyness, and occasional change of hearts. She was the ‘cool auntie’, and I begun to realize that cool aunties around the world get a lot of slack from uncool moms (especially in Iran). My own mother happens to be a cool one, but she’s my mom so I can never objectively analyze her.
She used to date a famous poet for a while. I remember us traveling together, as we always did with my parents and their friends back home, and how much fun both the kids and the “adults” seem to have. When her and the poet broke up (I was watching a documentary about him on TV a few days ago), my less-than-10-year-old mind was confused and disappointed. For a while, I continued to feel that way about every breakup or divorce around me. But there’s nothing more miserable than overdue breakups, dubious “open relationships,” and couples with separate bedrooms. I don’t know if we are made for monogamy or if monogamy was made for us. I can’t tell how many times one person really falls in love, and if falling out of it means it never happened. But I know it takes courage to unsettle your surroundings by breaking paths that are no longer meant to be shared, by choosing your lover not based on their gender, race or bank account, and by wanting to move on and forward. Divorces should be celebrated as marriages are— in both cases you are letting go of persons/things and anticipating new ones. I also know that committing your attention, body, and eyes to one person is beautiful. It is liberating, and it calms your heart while also making it burst open and crash into your mind.
When I was 16 or 17 I went on an impromptu trip to L.A to get over my first major heartache. She lived there by then, and we went for sushi. I had my first Saki, she winked at me and said she won’t tell my mom. When she drew out the Marlboros, I asked for one, and she warned me that I shouldn’t smoke too much – but that my secret was safe with her. I told her about my breakup with surprised misty eyes. I told her I wanted to have more experiences and meet new boys. She took a sip of her water and said, “loving someone is like pouring water in a glass. If it’s full, it will overflow. You have to empty the glass first and then start a new love.”
I haven’t seen her since. Her beauty is immortalised, maybe even romanticized in my head. And I wonder if that’s all the advice I ever needed from her.