3. THE MOVE
I couldn't quite understand why Elham's death grieved me so, even after attempting to discuss it extensively with my therapist. I was haunted by her death and could no longer bear the thought of living in the same house where I had countless memories of scooping her scat. I decided to move out.
A friend put me in touch with a guy who was subletting an en-suite bedroom in his flat in Dekwaneh. His name was Dali. We exchanged numbers and spoke briefly on the phone.
"It's 300 USD a month, all bills included. And there's a private parking for your car, if you have one."
"Do you have any pets?"
"Do you plan on getting any pets?"
"I don't think so."
"Your answer is inconclusive."
"I mean, I'm allergic to cats."
"So basically, no."
Dali lived on the awkwardly named Slave Street, in a three-bedroom flat on the top floor of a worn-out building. The building entrance boasted a full-length mirror and a Virgin Mary shrine, faintly reminiscent of the one my grandmother had meticulously curated in her living room.
I took the elevator all the way to the eighth floor and rang the bell. I knew what Dali looked like, of course, since I'd stalked his Facebook pictures thoroughly before making my way to his place, so I knew what to expect, though I also knew that I should act like I didn't.
"Greetings!" he said as he opened the door, a toothbrush in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. "Welcome to the lab."