Kamran can make jokes in the most boring situations from the most ordinary things. we are waiting for him in tajrish sq. to visit a painting show together.
I’m wearing headscarf as usual, my hair been seen by men may "excite" them so I have to cover it. Puya not so happy with the hot weather says he can’t imagine how I’m doing this. I could never get used to it myself, though it’s been this way since I was seven with exception for last three years in India.

From the moment I entered Mehrabad airport, I’ve been trying to be careful with moral police. Now standing there with two guys, Puya and another friend Hosein, feels too dangerous.
"are you sure he's coming?" I ask. "Yes.. Ah there he is" Puya says "look how fat he's become..".
He's right. I haven't seen Kamran for several years now. He says he’s stopped using drugs recently. back in our weekend parties he was the funny skinny guy who could make every one laugh all night long. He is standing in front of me now, with this mass of fat all around his waist and those eyes that though still blue, carrying a load of cold silence.
He doesn’t recognize me first, then after a second or so he widens his eye; "Neda! what are you doing here?!"
I smile, trying not to tell him how much I think he’s changed…

The painting show is not much crowded but there are many people in the coffee shop of "Niavaran Artistic Creations Foundation", women drowned in make up and guys with hair style that reminds me of those of 80s’, sitting there drinking coffee and talking.

I’d heard many things have changed, but almost the only thing I see changed, is people. They are much more softened and polite now in comparison with the time I left Iran. They are also less political, in an appreciable extent.
The streets are empty and the air is clean. It won't be that easy to leave this time… I think to myself.. this city; my home, Tehran.