A short story

By Amir Bagheri



“Responsibility Starts in dreams.”

– Haruki Murakami


We both sat at the bar counter, drinking shaken margaritas when a drunk, inappropriate, man interrupted us.

“Are you taken?” he asked her; in a disgusting tone.

“No one is actually taken until they’re dead” she said.


We spoke about a lot of things that night. The ups and downs of our lives. We had laughed about our painful upbringings; that others would simply cry about. Not that we had found any of it amusing, but because laughter was all we had left in us.


I came home and passed out. The margaritas had numbed my mind so I was able to get a good night’s sleep.


I dreamt of us that night. Her and I. Motionless, we were lying down, naked, on a carpet that was laid on top of a rooftop, in an unknown city; at least to me. Surrounded by plants with dews on their leaves, we were both staring at the stars, speechless; as if she and I had just smoked weed and were waiting for its magic to take over our insanity. At the same time, we didn’t need to speak to each other to understand what was going on within us.


Our inner pains that we couldn’t hide so well from each other, were already soul mates.


What is it in the satisfying sensation of being understood, that you are willing to burn down all walls and bridges you once built to protect yourself?


“Who do you think is the cruellest person in history?” she finally broke the silence.

“I don’t know. Who do you think that is?”

“Your God.” she sighed.


Our eyes were still fixed on the stars. She turned on her left side and slowly moved her right hand towards mine.


All this time

I always thought

It would be your hand

Holding mine.

–  Yellow Days


As she held my hand,

our souls left our bodies,



“No one is actually taken until they’re dead”

–  Her

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