The hardest part of the night: The Goodbyes. The time had finally arrived at Rumi’s mother’s weekly dinner, after hours of creeping on the periphery like his sister’s fiance. Unlike him, though, Rumi wasn’t able to get away with a string of staccato nods to his aunts and uncles. He would have to say goodbye to them individually, and he couldn’t imagine anything more painful. Nothing. Nothing at all. He tried for 12 somber minutes by the window in his room, assuming that was how everyone came up with their thoughts.
Saying goodbye to Persian relatives was too much for anybody, let alone a guy like him. A guy who loved arranging his own flowers and perusing Zillow. A guy who would rather grab a drink with Andy Cohen than Messi. Their community didn’t know a lot of men like Rumi—none that they were aware of, at least. He had successfully avoided family gatherings for a whole year until two days ago, when his mother confronted him at a Homegoods.
“I like dees,” she said, studying a cartoonishly oversized pen. It was impractical and purely decorative, roughly the same proportions as a French baguette.
“Yeah?”
“Cute. For guest ba-troom.”
Rumi’s mother devoted all her interior design to one small space: the bathroom on the first floor of her house. It looked like a T.G. I. Fridays, if one opened in Versailles. There was absolutely no room in there for a giant, gold fountain pen.
“Yeah… maybe…”
“Effrey-von comeeng, dees Saturday… I get eet?” Refusing to break eye contact with her son, she reached into her shoulder bag, rummaging around for something she couldn’t find.
“Um, well, why, though? It’s not like a special occasion… you see them every week.”
And just like that, Nahid pounced. She had her in. Mom came in hard, and she came in fast. That was her style: No respect for personal space. She practically took a seat on his nose.
“I SEE DEM—who see you?!”
“Wha—?!”
“RUMI—”
“Shhhh!”
“Leesen!”
“Sh—”
“Ehh! Who care?! Always you wore-ee for es-tranger!”
“I’m not—I don’t worry for strangers! You’re just—just speak, quietly!”
Shrugging, she threw up a bejeweled, acrylic-nailed hand and said, “So? Dees eez Amereeka.”
“That literally has nothing to do with what we’re talking about.”
“You come dees Saturday. Dat’s EET!”
“Wha—why?—why?”
“What you do you for me? Huh?”
Nahid had a habit of proclaiming that no one, especially her son, ever did anything for her. It was a wild lie, but she also got a lot done with it.
“You do this vonnn thing for your mah-der. Effrey-von say my son eez rude!”
“Ugh! Why do you always ‘wore-ree’ what everyone says?!”
His mom glared at him, raising a heavily penciled eyebrow. He braced for impact.
“Soooooooo es-tupeed,” she said, shaking her head in disgust. “Grab dees.” She pointed to the colossal pen and left…
It’s not that he didn’t love his extended family, because he did. Rumi loved his four aunts, six uncles, 25 cousins, and every one of the spouses that came with them. It’s just that The Goodbye was uncomfortable. Intimate. All of a sudden, every relative would rise up from wherever they were sitting and await their farewell. It seemed random but rehearsed at the same time, like a flash mob for receiving lines. Rumi would start by going up to a person and flatter them for something—anything. Then, he/she would refuse to accept the compliment, politely, and return the praise to him. This process would repeat three or four times, the pair going back and forth in a fierce competition of sweetness. Eventually, they would ask about school, suggesting he study engineering. Rumi would explain, again, that he wanted to stick to graphic design. They posed questions about his love life. The women touched his face. Once he and a Goodbye partner were through with their dance, they concluded the exchange by kissing each other’s cheeks. That, by far, was the hardest part of it all.
There are two kinds of people in the Persian community: Those that kiss you on the cheek twice, and those that you kiss you on the cheek three times. There’s no way of knowing who’s who. It’s not something you wear, like a political button. A person has to go all in, gamble it all, and guess. The odds are 50/50. Rumi mostly lost, and it was crushing. He aged a whole year every time it happened. He’d go in for a third kiss, only to embrace the air with eyes closed. Other times, he’d stop at two kisses when his partner wasn’t done, feeling absolutely barbaric. Either way, there was really no way to be graceful about a missed kiss, especially with an audience present. A thousand dark eyes, all on him, all full of pity.
Their opinions of Rumi were were validated with each Goodbye.
And now, it was time for another. He knew because his dad, Majid, had been asleep for 45 minutes in a seat next to the television. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary—Majid was famous for falling asleep while sitting up. It was the seat change that was worth noting. He had been sitting in a different a different seat—the loveseat by the doorway—for most of the night. The sudden switch was an old trick: He wanted to position himself where the guests were looking, so that they would be confronted with the image of his “exhaustion,” compelling them to leave. His version of a school bell.
Rumi was at his parents’ house, so he knew where the nearest exit was. He was looking for anything to bail him out. Maybe his cell would ring and he’d take the “call” outside, and… never return because someone died? He locked eyes with his mother. She was staring dead at him, and had been for who knows how long. Her hands were preoccupied with clearing the desserts, but she could hear his inner monologue.
He’d have to produce a body.
“Rumi, you look tired.”
“Yeahh…”
“Say goodbye and take train?”
“Mmmm—yeah. Yeah, ok.”
This was it. His mother had forced it on him. Rumi approached his uncle—Nahid’s brother—first, hand outstretched. At the sight of this, the whole room stood up, and one by one, he went down the line:
Uncle Hamid
“Rumi! We play cards next time! Bring your money! Oh, no—Mr. Fashion has no money!”
Rumi’s Kiss Attempts: 2
Kisses: 2
Not bad….
Aunt Maryam
“What?! You leave!? It’s only 10 o’clock! You leave me? Ohhhh—you want to see gerl-frend, huh? Ey, pedar sookhteh!”
Rumi’s Kiss Attempts: 2
Kisses: 2
Lucky…
Aunt Zahra
“Write me nice email in nice Engleesh? For Amazon return? ”
Rumi’s Kiss Attempts: 2
Kisses: 2
2 is the number… keep up with 2…
Cousin Hassan
“Dabble Date? Wit gerl-frend?”
Rumi’s Kiss Attempts: 2
Kisses: 3
FUUUUCK.
Hassan’s Wife
“Vow—Hassan, you should e-smell like dees. Come here. Come into his neck.”
Rumi’s Kiss Attempts: 3
Kisses: 3
Ok, Hassan and his people do 3…
Great Uncle Behrooz
“You vill be homeless, Rumi.”
Rumi’s Kiss Attempts: 3
Kisses: 2
YOU’RE FINE, YOU’RE FINE.
Aunt Mahnaz
“Vayyyyy! My handsome boy! So fashion-y, so, so haaaandsomeeeee. I know you peeck the big pen—Nahid! He peeck pen, huh?!”
Rumi’s Kiss Attempts: 2
Kisses: 3
THEY’RE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE.
Rumi went on to miss five more times. When he was done, he nearly ran to the door. He was about to turn the handle and leave, when his mother stopped him.
“Rumi! Vait!”
His mother took her time getting to him, stopping along the way to inspect spots on the floor. He had already said goodbye to her, so why was she interrupting his escape? There was no food in her hands, so it wasn’t to give him leftovers. He decided she was probably going to have him take a picture of the group, when, finally, Nahid reached up and grabbed his face.
“You make me soooooooo happy tonight.”
And with that, she kissed her son. She kissed him over and over and over. His cheeks, his forehead, his neck, his hands. Rumi didn’t count these kisses. Instead, he smiled his first smile genuine smile of the night.