Moonlit
By Kayvan Kaboli
How quickly the initial excitement between us had faded. Three years had passed since our wedding. Love was still there, but the thrill was gone. Until that moonlit night, when our unprecedented expressions of feeling during lovemaking took us both by surprise.
Somewhere after we first met, we had stopped expressing our emotions to each other. Rarely did a “I love you” pass between us, let alone a deeper outpouring of feelings, from both sides.
That night, at the height of passion, she said:
“I really love your broad shoulders. I think they’re the most beautiful part of your body.”
When I heard those words, my sexual ardor flared, and I moved with greater vigor upon her. And then, involuntarily but from the depths of my heart, I said, “I love you.”
Moonlight spilled through the window onto the bed, illuminating her face as she gazed up at me, her eyes fixed on mine, her features glowing moon-like. The radiance of her skin under that special light was transformed. It was as though I had never truly seen that face, its proportions, or the harmony of its features before that night, nor her eyes. It felt as if I had never looked into those dark, penetrating eyes, whose smallest details, even down to the pupils, I could now remember clearly.
No, it wasn’t the effect of weed; even if I had taken a puff earlier that evening, the sharpness and clarity of these perceptions could be explained by that.
I couldn’t remember ever hearing my father say “I love you” to my mother in my childhood. I often wondered if it was my upbringing that had made me so reserved, or simply my shyness about voicing feelings. But why my wife, unlike other women, also withheld such expressions puzzled me. Was her love still alive? Or had she, too, been raised in a culture where feelings weren’t spoken aloud?
***
Years before my marriage, I had taken a history of jazz class in college that left me with an unforgettable memory. It was one of those elective courses students take just to fill credits. Such classes were usually light, fun—whether history, philosophy, or music. From the very first session, everything about the jazz history class was cheerful and easygoing. The professor, a young, relaxed man, would sometimes play piano or guitar. A piano stood in the classroom, and occasionally he brought his guitar in its black case. The atmosphere was full of energy and playfulness.
But above all else, there was beauty in that class. Beauty sat beside me and by pure chance.
Until that day, I had never encountered beauty in such concentrated form as in the face of the girl next to me. She was the very embodiment of beauty. Born in the U.S. to wealthy Russian parents, she modeled part-time for magazines. Long legs, a slim figure, a narrow face with pronounced cheekbones and lips, all natural, like her long eyelashes. No trace of surgery or cosmetic enhancement. Her breasts, neither too small nor too large, just right, were firm and round, drawing eyes like a magnet even beneath her blouse or shirt that covered her long, slender neck. She never dressed provocatively in class. She knew she was beautiful, yet neither flaunted it nor particularly tried to hide it, at least not in class I guessed.
And there I was, seated right beside her, entirely by coincidence. On the first day, I had chosen that seat, and just as the teacher was closing the door, she walked in. Most seats were taken, but there was one open next to me in the back, my usual spot. She strolled elegantly with charm past, and every head turned, men’s and women’s alike. That day, she wore fitted jeans and a white blouse, neither tight nor loose.
When she sat beside me, a strange sensation washed over me. One look was enough to shake me to my core. I burned with heat and froze in place. I leaned back in my chair repeatedly, stealing glances at her profile. Midway through class, I pulled out my notebook and, almost against my will, began writing descriptions of her beauty. I wasn’t a writer then, nor had I ever enjoyed writing on such subjects, but at that moment I couldn’t help myself. I filled a page.
She noticed. Curious about what I was jotting down from a professor who hadn’t really said anything important yet, she glanced at my paper. I quickly covered it with my hand, crumpled it, and shoved it into my backpack. Her smile froze mine on my face. Profile or full face, each was more beautiful than the other. If I had to judge which angle of hers was lovelier, I could never decide, not for all eternity.
By the end of the term, I was the only one in class she regularly spoke with. The other men looked on like starving dogs, watching food, their eyes burning with envy as we left together during breaks. I felt their curses aimed at me. Handsomer guys than me were among them, but for reasons beyond me, she had chosen me as her companion. No one, not even I, knew what she saw in me.
Class went on, filled with the immortal sounds of blues and the greats of jazz, music that rang in my ears like heavenly gifts. Her favorite tune, though, was Miles Davis’ “Someday My Prince Will Come.” We went to a nearby bookstore café a few times, talking, browsing books, drinking coffee. That same piece of Davis’ played there on occasion, and I wondered: was I her prince, or was she still waiting for another?
Near the end of the term, her prince did appear. She told me she had gotten engaged to a wealthy Italian lawyer, a family friend.
***
Some time after that moonlit night, one Saturday afternoon while strolling with my wife at the mall, we stopped by the same bookstore. After our marriage, we often spent Saturdays there, leafing through magazines over coffee.
We sat across from each other, both reading. Suddenly, from the café’s speakers, that magical tune by Miles Davis began to play. A chill surged beneath my skin. I looked up and saw her, the beauty from jazz class, entering the café from the bookstore. A stylish young man, chatting on his phone, followed two steps behind her.
I froze. They drew nearer. I heard the man speaking Italian. She looked just as I remembered, perhaps even lovelier. She stood by our table, looking straight at me, smiling, as if waiting for me to say something. My lips felt glued shut. I tried to speak, but no sound came. Her eyes held expectation.
Disappointed, she turned to leave. In that final instant, I caught a glimpse of sadness in her eyes. She headed for the exit, her shadow of a man still trailing her. Reaching the doorway, suddenly my mouth opened, and I shouted: “I love you!”
She turned back, smiled, and walked out, the man following.
Across the small table, my wife, like the other customers around us, stared at me in shock. I reached out, took her hand, and asked for the other as well. Her gaze was a mix of confusion and wonder. I smiled. I looked toward where the beauty had gone. She was coming back, alone this time. The man was no longer with her.
My wife followed my gaze, staring in the same direction. The radiant beauty approached our table, came to my wife’s chair, and sat down. That beautiful figure, that beloved presence, became one with my wife. I clasped their hands together in mine.
I said to my wife, “Give me one promise.” She nodded.
“When we have children, always, always, let’s say ‘I love you’ to each other in front of them.”
