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We had lively discussions and he helped me to see a non-Occidental view of the world.But we had no way to reach out to each other surrounded as we always were by family.My aunts were glued to the latest soap on State television while my teenage cousin flicked to the Persian pop channels beamed from Los Angeles via satellite.
The morality police were the last thing on our minds. We were distantly related to his family, who lived there, and S and I spent the week together.
Our families spent the days visiting the province’s natural wonders and picnicking extravagantly at any opportunity.
The police picked us up, separated us, threatened to flog us, to possibly force us to marry. It happened that the hotelier was obviously—and illegally—drunk, and from the same town as my (then still platonic) lover and so he agreed to give us accommodations without paperwork, at some risk to his own livelihood because even with separate rooms, as a lone, single woman, I should have arrived with permission to travel from my father, stamped by the local morality police.
S sneaked into my room in the dead of night and I nervously ushered him in, both of us looking over his shoulder.
This night together was the culmination of years of yearning, years of longing looks and “accidental” brushes against each other.