Jalsat Shay fi Asfahanجلسة شاي في أصفهان

Darya linked her arm through Mina’s.
"Come along, Mina. Let’s go have some tea together."
She led her to a teahouse she had known years ago, situated near the Bridge of Thirty-Three Arches. The entrance was tucked away beneath the bridge, with steps leading down to a cozy, warm room where tea was served. Darya was delighted to find the teahouse exactly as she remembered it.
People sat barefoot on Persian carpets, leaning against cushions draped in crimson and burgundy fabrics. The men smoked *ghalyans*—water pipes—while the women sipped their tea in quiet, relaxed serenity.
When the waiter brought the tea, along with cubes of snow-white sugar served on translucent saucers, Darya decided the time had come to ask Mina.
"So," she said, clearing her throat, "are you an *asheq* now?"
Darya employed the vocabulary of the Persian poets: *eshq*—love—and *asheq*—one who has fallen in love.
"I beg your pardon?" Darya asked, her arm freezing mid-air.
"—and kindness will carry you through life’s vicissitudes." "Is he kind?" Darya asked. "For as you know, Mina, much can be said for education, career, family background, and appearance. But if there is one thing that truly matters, it is character. That is the only thing that endures.
And kindness will carry you through life’s vicissitudes."
"He is very kind."
"Well, that’s a good start."