Farzan stared at the bowl of marinade. How many inches of liquid did it take to drown yourself in?
“I get it,” he said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“I was hoping to catch you before you started. I can Venmo you for the groceries—”
“It’s fine. Leftovers, right?” Farzan knew he sounded weird. His throat felt like it was closing up. Farzan didn’t have any allergies (unless you counted how cantaloupe always made his tongue burn), but maybe he was becoming allergic to constant rejection.
Repeated exposure made allergies worse, right?
“I… guess I’d better let you go then.”
“Yeah. Okay. Uh. Thanks, Farzan. Bye.”
“Bye.” But Cliff had already hung up.
Farzan jumped when Utada started singing again. He paused the song and sighed.
Thirty-seven years old and single again.
Thirty-seven years old, single, and about to drop a fifty-dollar salmon fillet on the floor.
“Goddamn it!” he spat. The salmon was a two-hand job.
He groaned and pulled it off the floor. A good rinse and it would be fine.
Farzan shook his head, blinking against the sting in his eyes. Did it count as a breakup if you were never officially together? It hurt like one. Not the sort of all-encompassing, black-hole-of-despair heartbreak he’d had with his last serious boyfriend, Jason (fucking Jason, he mentally amended), or even the jagged, knife-to-the-guts feeling of when he’d brought up being exclusive to Corey, who said he didn’t see why they had to change their casual relationship to something more (that’s what Farzan got for falling for a guy whoonly did casual) but still, this hurt enough.
What was it about him that drove men away?
Farzan knew he was fairly good-looking. His light russet skin was smooth and clear, thanks to a combination of good genes and good skin care. He had an elegant nose (if only a little largish—he was Persian after all). His thick, curly black hair wasn’t thinning—Alavi men didn’t usually go bald, though he had started finding salt in his pepper. Plenty of guys complimented his warm brown bedroom eyes.
Yeah, maybe he was headed toward a bit of a barrel chest, and yeah, he’d lost any trace of abs five years ago, but he was reasonably fit, even by the unrelenting standards of the gay community.
Farzan huffed. If it wasn’t his looks, it had to be something else, something inside him, and he couldn’t wait to hear his family’s latest theories aboutthatnext time they interrogated him about his dating life.
Meanwhile, his younger sister was happily married, and his baby brother was in a long-term relationship. Everyone in the family was already taking bets on when he’d propose.
How had Farzan wound up as the one with no love life?
He finished rinsing the salmon and patted it dry with a paper towel. At least Cliff had called before he’d started cooking the rice. He could save the marinade for tomorrow—it would actually taste better after sitting overnight anyway.
Farzan didn’t much feel like cooking anymore. Persian food was for sharing: for family gatherings, for date nights, for sitting together enjoying the warmth of a meal, lovingly prepared. It was not a food for breakups.
Thankfully (or lamentably), Farzan had a foolproof solution for heartbreak: get drunk on wine and eat a bunch of french fries. He’d perfected the pairing in his twenties, commiserating with his best friends, Ramin and Arya, over the men they were seeing, and fucking, and loving, and losing.
Farzan paused his music and pulled his phone back out to text them. The only thing better for a breakup than wine and fries was wine and fries with friends.
Farzan
Guess who got dumped
You guys free for wine and fries?
We could check out that new wine bar.
His friends answered in less than a minute.
Arya
