2/10/2006
Ali R. Forootan
I just came back from Iran. One hot, uncharacteristically humid, afternoon when I was there I sat on the balcony of our apartment to tea and look at the sites of the country that I adore. Tehran is a beautiful city, even with smog hanging in the air.
Anyway, as I drank my tea and read from the afternoon newspaper. I heard a whistle. A high tone note followed by yet a higher tone but different note. I looked down the street and there he stood, a teenage boy, about 12-13. He had dark long hair, bangs grown longer in front, about five feet tall. He was wearing a azure blue shirt, a pair of jeans, and sneakers. He held a plastic ball, with red and white stripes, firmly between his arm and body.
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