“I thought so too,” Daniel said sadly. “But with the way things are right now, the bank is being very selective about small business loans, and restaurants always face an uphill battle.”
“But we’ve been around for nearly forty years,” Farzan said. “It’s not like I’m some… some sort of pop-up diner.”
“I know.” Daniel ran a hand through his hair. It was stylishly cut, a little long and swoopy on the top.
Maybe Farzan should’ve cut his hair for this. Something short and professional, like Ramin’s. The kind of haircut that let you walk into a law firm or accounting service or—well, a bank—holding a mug of coffee, yell at some interns, fill out some TPS reports, then call it a day and drive your imported European car back to your house in Brookside or Leawood or even Loch Lloyd.
“I’m really sorry, Mr. Alavi.”
Farzan pressed his lips together and nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak, especially with the lump in his throat. He’d sound like a Muppet.
The bank’s door let out an electronic chime that definitely didn’t make him feel thankful. Neither did the stuffed turkey and fake cornucopia on the windowsill. The wind had picked up, blustering down Main Street, a frigid blast amplified by the wind tunnel effect that cut right through his puffy coat. The right cuff was beginning to fray, too.
A cold front had moved in, the nasty kind that Farzan associated with early February, not early November. He pulled his hat on tight to protect his ears, which were already burning from the cold. His smooth cheeks were beginning to chap, too.
He’d shaved—full-on shaved, not just trimmed—and for what? Nothing. Just a bunch of ingrown hairs in the morning, most likely.
Fuck.
He’d tried. He’d really tried.
He’d worked so fucking hard. Ran the numbers by David three times. Got Ramin’s help jazzing up his little packet. Rehearsed his interview over and over.
Shiraz Bistro was a good, solid business. They were in the black. Farzan was running it just fine.
And it still wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough.
David’s plane was supposed to land this evening, and Farzan was picking him up. He’d get to hear all about the new restaurant David was going to be working at; about all the hot young gay folks David would be swimming in, once he moved to LA; about all the cool, successfulpeople living their dreams and getting loans and being responsible adults, instead of fuckups.
Fuckups like Farzan.
Farzan loved David, loved him so much he thought his heart might explode. But David was going places. David was talented and passionate. He had dreams, dreams that were coming true.
Farzan’s dreams had just turned to ash.
What was he supposed to do?
Ramin
How’d it go?
Arya
Get that bag!!!
Farzan stared at the group chat, throat squeezed shut. How could he tell his best friends he’d fucked up again?
He glared out at the cell phone lot. He’d turned his car off while he waited for David to text; the chill was starting to seep back in. The night sky was clear, but light pollution obscured everything except Orion, which was one of the two constellations Farzan actually knew how to find. (The other was the Big Dipper.)
His phone buzzed again.
Maman
Farzanjan can you grab me some rice next time you go to Costco?
Love and thank you
God. What was he going to tell his family? He’d talked himself up in front of all of them. Now they’d know he was a failure.
