There is no sensation of velocity in the airplane’s drowsy cabin, no motion to attract a bored eye. Empty seatbacks reach to the first class curtain and the aisle is deserted. Next to me the window is an oval cutout of starry sky. I press my forehead against the cool plexiglass and stare down from my perch in the night. Lost in the cloudy murk below is Kansas City, receding. Somewhere ahead of me is San Diego. I don’t know where I am right now. Over the Rocky Mountains, maybe.A photo album of faces and places is splayed across my lap. I turn the glossy pages with an unpainted fingernail, reliving the moments that were worth capturing. It doesn’t take long to flip to the end. The brief transit across my adult life makes me a little sad. I’m 23 now, almost 24. I wish it took more pages to hold the experiences I haven’t had, all my sights unseen.

Saman is the star of the album. I look like an afterthought even when I’m the only one in the picture. Across the pages he seems to thicken and settle, becoming a fixture in ever-changing condos. His bulk shows off a trendy wardrobe, rings multiply on his fingers. Sometimes he’s nut-brown in the wake of a business trip that was more play than work. He smiles brightest when surrounded by his relatives, and more dimly when it’s just the two of us.

Of all the pictures in the album, the last one is the most symbolic. We’re captured in brief proximity at Norouz, the Persian New Year that’s springtime back in Iran but still winter in most of America. His arm encircles me possessively, but draped over my shoulder like I’m just another cousin, not cinching my waist as if I’m his wife. He glances sideways in my direction, a mistrustful — even deceitful — angle. He half-smiles for the camera, half-smirks at me and my needs. Behind him is a glimpse of the household where he rules as king, and the front door to his other life.

I stare at the picture with a thumb over my two-dimensional face, just contemplating him. I already know what I look like. A wife with doubts seeping into her heartbeats. A daughter-in-law trying too hard. A girl afraid of whatever happens next.

I married Saman knowing — knowing — that I was choosing this life. A traditional Persian man has certain expectations. So does his family. So does mine, for that matter. But I never expected it would be this hard. Inhabiting a world where I’m always second-best — to my husband, to his parents, to every relative-in-law. Depending on him for money, since it would be shameful if I had my own income. Moving from one lookalike condo and unwelcoming city to the next. Hosting near-strangers from Iran for months on end. Resisting all the pressure to quit school and give him children.

Sometimes I wish I’d waited to marry. No, be honest with yourself, Nooshin — I wish that all the time. If I could meet the bride in the black-and-white portraits inside the album’s front cover, I’d tell her to wait. Scream it at her, even. Finish your education first! Date boys, maybe even non-Persians! Make sure he loves you!

But I already know it would be useless. I remember what it was like to be that bride. She was 18 years naive, and scared of life on her own, and worried that she couldn’t do any better.

Let’s face it, I’m not a catch in any culture. My body is shaped like a kebab, not an hourglass — tall, flat-chested, with narrow boy hips and not much butt. Worse, I have a lazy eye. My right one. I received treatment for it after we emigrated to America, so I’m not a total freakshow, but still. People like it when you look at them, not at them and everything off to their left simultaneously.

That’s why my family began shopping me around like spoiling fruit during my senior year of high school. It was up to them to find me a husband, after all. Dating is forbidden in Islam. My aunts were characteristically blunt about their matchmaking. A girl like me had to be realistic. I was no princess, and I couldn’t expect to find a prince. Take the first man who comes my way, because there might not be another.

My hopes were pinned to the few Persian boys in the neighborhood, a future generation of waiters and taxi drivers from humble families like mine. But their names never came up. In fact no names came up. My aunts pretended everything was okay, but Mom couldn’t. I knew why empty wine bottles and kleenex boxes kept appearing in the garbage. No one wanted to marry me. It wasn’t just a rejection of her daughter, it was a rejection of our family.

A couple months before graduation I was introduced to Mrs. Fazel, a professional matchmaker who specialized in marriages to Iranians. It was time to face the facts. I only had one thing going for me — my citizenship. She showed me a picture of Saman. He wanted to come to America. His family was honorable and starting businesses in this country, mostly in the Midwest. Did I want to marry him? I studied his face carefully. My husband, I thought.

Five years ago I said yes. Now I don’t know the answer.

Compulsions lurk in the depths of our marriage, brushing against my legs when we argue, sometimes dying and washing up on the beach. My domestic loyalty, enforced by a lack of beauty and options. All the insecurity I offset because of this diamond ring on my finger. My family’s pride — or maybe just relief — in marrying me off. A college degree I don’t have and maybe never will. The stupid way I surrender to everything.

Every morning I linger half-awake, hoping this is just a bad dream. I’ll open my eyes and a different man will be snoring beside me, a different girl in the mirror will be rubbing the sleepdust out of her eyes. Or maybe I’ll be back in my high school bedroom with the chance to do it all over again. But today never turns out to be a bad dream. Just more of the same.

I struggle to envision the rest of my life with Saman, and struggle even more to envision it without him. I hide behind a silent calm and pretend I feel no pain. I go through the motions — in the kitchen, with his family, whenever he wants sex. I watch another year bleed off the calendar.

No bad marriage should last forever. I keep telling myself that, and even the Qu’ran agrees. But my shame is thick, and I feel so despondent, and the truth is written in every face I see — I’m no princess, and I can’t expect to find a prince. Maybe this is as good as it gets for a girl like me. Welcome to your future, Nooshin. Year after year after year, until the morning my eyes finally don’t open.