We got in the car, Roxana next to me and Sara in the
back.
Shemiran was quiet and still; the snow muffled sound.
Rooftops and cars were spread with thick white slices and the trees looked
as if they’d been scattered with cotton wool. Men trudging home from the
bakery clutched steaming barbari in gloved hands and left trails of
footprints.
It was busier and noisier on Valiasr. Cars jostled and
sounded their horns, and skidding motorbikes flung powder at pedestrians.
“What about some music?” Sara said, leaning forward.
I pulled up at the lights and rummaged through CDs.
“Madonna, Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson... What do you feel
like?”
“What about Whitney Houston?” Roxana said.
“Too cheesy, too old,” Sara said.
“I’ve got Kylie’s latest. How about that?” I
said.
“Awesome.
