By Marzieh Mohammadpour
Translated by: Roya Monajem
Edited by: Katherine L. Clark
"From tomorrow, from tomorrow I should have another day."
Every night she repeated these words like a prayer and crawled into her warm soft bed and traveled to the land of dreams.
"From tomorrow, I would have another day. I would go to the library in the morning. I would read a little bit of philosophy, a little bit of history, and a little bit of critique. Then I would write; slowly and quietly. So much so that I would become as thin as the blue line of my pen. Library inspires me, but I first have to come into terms with my obstinate boss."
The last time she picked up the pen was four years ago. Her last short story published recently in a monthly review, only discouraged and dissuaded her more.
For four years, there were only the office desk, afternoons of yawning, the grumbling of her close relatives, her stubborn wooers and her bad tempers.
In the evenings though, she often stayed at home. In her small room, she sat on the floor hugging her knees. Inattentive to the books surrounding her, she stared at the ceiling until the night poured in through the window and she remained in the dark until sleep filled her eyes and she went to bed again. And sometimes she left the bed to write a few lines, although her eyes got tired soon and so she lied down again and closed her eyes to dream until she reached old age and death.
Summer afternoons, white roofs and terraces, absorbed the illusory shadows of the tress and the narrow street behind the office was as clean and unpopulated as always. The hejleh  of one of the young men of the neighborhood had no pilgrims despite all its plastic light bulbs and geraniums.
She sat behind her desk despairingly to read the whites as usual, but the sound of the voice of Dr. Taraghi echoing in the corridors did not let her:
-- I have mentioned it in the announcement number ten. The ex-cabinet had been informed too. It was broadcasted by BBC as well, without missing a single word. It is the love for this sort of things that.
There was not a single intact spot left on Dr. Taraghi's car and still every morning he parked it in the same street, beneath the window of his office with its back toward the geraniums and plastic light bulbs. Whenever she saw his small eyes and his wide mouth that filled the kitchen with slogans, while he was toasting his bread, she trembled violently and sought asylum in her room. She stood by the window and stared at the piece of the sky accessible to her until she finally took the unfinished projects out of the drawer of her desk to work on telling herself: "From tomorrow." But then she threw them back into the drawer and with her back toward the clouds that filled and abandoned the window frame, she began translating a file until evening.
And it was then that she took her tired body home, hang her coat and scarf on the same old peg and stood in front of the mirror of her closet, brushed her thin meager hair and gazing at herself she reminded herself that 'she is still young.'
She turned on the tape recorder and danced and danced with the music until she felt refreshed. Then she went to the kitchen; ate her snack and got ready for bed; picked up the books on her table one by one, blew the dust off them and put them back and crawled into her soft warm bed and dreamt.
"From tomorrow, from tomorrow I would have another day. Morning in the library, a little bit of philosophy, a little bit of history, write, thin, vague, blue, blue, obstinate, obstinate.obstinate."
1. Hejleh is a booth like structure with mirror decoration set up when a young man dies with his picture attached to it. It is set up only for men.