In her eyes, he envisioned cobble-stone streets, provincial shops, adobe homes that are white as a wedding, pristine and treasured like a perfect diamond. In her eyes, he imagined olive groves, gnarly branches that aged with character, a solid blue sky laughing a few light-footed clouds. He smelled on her the scent of the sea, fishy palms and perspiration, the glorious smell of bread baking that tantalized the nostrils at dawn. She held that for him: a fantasy of a forgotten time in an isolated place, unspoiled by strangers.
She was Greek – a strong heritage that has endured for centuries. Greek like the great philosophers and myth dwellers.
Here in New York City, they are displaced from their histories. He – a second-generation Turkish immigrant – met her one day when they studied chemistry together at NYU, where they shared beakers and curious touching under the lab table. The encounter was innocent enough that spring semester. From that grey winter, spring ushered in green and blue. She smiled: “Amir, should we study for next week’s midterm?” She spoke in a non-chalant manner. He noticed that her black curly hair smelled like orchids; it had brushed across his face as she loaded her books. She let the question linger without looking up. He knew she was trying to hide her own blushing. He very, very gently replied, “Yes.”
