Iran, Tehran.
6PM.
Manuchehr was sitting with his right hand under his chin, his face was depressed, his eyes were sleepy and he was staring at the clock which was on a cloth that was on the armchair and he was asking himself:
"Will Khojaste go to the masquerade tonight? I can't do it, never, ever."
It was dark and rainy, the rain was little but repetitive and it was making depressed smiles on water which were like a chain that was spinning and was going to fade later on. The trees were silent and moveless under the rain.
The only sound being heard was the sound of water dropping off the gutter. It was one of those romantic weathers, that makes the hearts pound and makes people want to go to a lonely and cozy place and play piano smoothly and slowly. Surprisingly this view had a good relation with Manuchehr's thoughts.
All of his thoughts were flying around a small mole involuntarily. A small mole that was placed very well on Khojaste's lips and it made her prettier. Charming greenish brown eyes, white teeth that whenever she was laughing she was showing them bravely, small head, small mind and that innocent look that was like a sheep that is going to the slaughterhouse, she was a breakable idol or chinese doll that Manuchehr was scared of touching her because that may harm her. From the day that he saw Khojaste, he loved her wildly. Every move of her was meaningful and full of flirting for Manuchehr and leaving her was impossible for him.