Tucked into the thicket of oaks is a floodlit sign announcing REINA DE ESPANA. “Rain of Spain?” Nasrin asks, turning the wheel so the minivan’s headlights leave the road and light up the ghostly tree trunks, then the cars scattered across the parking lot, and finally the textured stucco walls of the restaurant. “Like that one saying? The rain in Spain falls mostly on the plain?”

“Reina means queen in Spanish,” I explain, surprised I know that, not sure how. I haven’t been exposed to Spanish since we lived in East Los Angeles, two immigrant girls baffled by a strange new world. “Queen of Spain. A Spanish restaurant fit for the queen.”

In October the night air is crisp, even in San Diego. I was forced to borrow a pullover sweater from Nasrin since I forgot to pack anything warm. The same sweater that complements her hourglass figure looks comical on me, too short in the sleeves, too baggy in the chest. But I don’t mind very much. I’m used to looking comical, ungainly, even repugnant.

We follow a tracklit path through a rock garden to the recessed entryway. Inside is a dim foyer with a low ceiling pressing down. Faux wrought-iron torches hang from the walls and all the woodwork is stained almost black. The hostess is a Hispanic teen in a peasant blouse and wrap skirt. Her smile slips a notch when she looks up at me. It’s an opportunity to practice my hairflip technique — a quick snap of my neck counterclockwise, then a gentle downward tilt of my head tipped slightly to the right, letting my bangs settle in a veil across my crooked wandering eye.

The hostess leads us into the depths of the restaurant. Her boots and Nasrin’s heels clack-clack-clack on the red tile floor, echoing the flamenco music in the background. Behind them I’m whisper-quiet in my Nikes. Morose drunks line a shelf of mahogany, turning creakily on their leather stools, following our progress through the bar. Finally we arrive at a dining room of high-backed booths. The crushed velvet interiors look cozy, but they can’t fool my butt. Way uncomfortable.

“Can we sit out on the patio instead?” I ask, pointing at a swath of glass windows filled with murk.

“I guess so,” Nasrin says reluctantly. She has more padding in her jeans than I do.

In a few minutes we’re the only diners seated outside. The patio is a crescent of brick decorated with planters and plastic patio furniture. A waiter pours tea as the table gutters with crooked orange candles for Halloween. Above us tall propane heaters are hissing quietly, casting a warm glow. A steep gully leads down to a one-way street filled with taillights blurring together. The roofs below seem jumbled, almost random, but they fade into a gridwork of lights.

My sister loosens the hijab she always wears in public and sips her tea. “I wish you’d come visit more often. I haven’t been out since the last time you were here.” She has animal eyes in the candlelight.

“You and Farid should get a babysitter every weekend. Go out on dates.”

She laughs, a sad fading sound. “Did you get that from your Dr. Phil book?”

“What Dr. Phil book?” I slowly twirl my teacup on its saucer, playing dumb. Not looking at her.

“That Relationship Rescue book you’re reading.” Nasrin kicks her feet up on a chair, waiting for me to say something.

Silence builds. My voice has gone wherever it goes when I’m ashamed. There’s only the faint roar of traffic, the occasional woofing of a dog. High overhead the oaks rustle in a breeze we can’t feel.

Eventually the waiter returns to take our order, the eggplant bisque for Nasrin, gazpacho for me. Hunger seeps into every thought in my head. Somehow I forgot to eat lunch when I was passing the day in Hillcrest, wandering the streets lined with rainbow-flag shops and funky little restaurants, staring at the men holding hands with each other, the women embracing.

After the door clicks shut behind him, she sighs in annoyance and turns to confront me. Uses her fed-up big sister voice. “Nooshin. Just tell me. How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad,” I finally admit.

Nasrin ponders that revelation for a while. “Do you need to stay with us for a while? That kind of bad?”

“Well…” I start to say. Indecisive. Guilt-stricken. I told them I was visiting for a couple weeks, but I haven’t borrowed money for a return ticket yet. Maybe because I’m not going back.

She covers her mouth with a hand. Her left one. The diamond glinting on her simple gold band is nothing compared to my ostentatious rock. She mutters something in Farsi that I don’t catch. A prayer, maybe. Or a curse.

“What did you say?”

Nasrin is leaning toward me now, breathing fast. Her thick eyebrows gather in anger. “Is he cheating on you? If he’s cheating on you, then you must go to his mother. There’s no other way. Trust me.”

“It’s got nothing to do with that! Saman isn’t cheating on me.” Just saying it I feel my certainty waver. “It’s everything but that. It’s everything else.”

She considers my answer for a while. “No marriage is perfect, you know. I’m telling you that from personal experience. Farid and I, we have our rough patches. All married couples do. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.” She tries for a reassuring smile and misses. “You’ve got the right idea with that Dr. Phil book, but lean on your faith. Read the Qu’ran every day and lift up your marriage to God in prayer. Does your mosque in Kansas City offer marriage counseling?”

All my bones start to melt, slowly and then quickly, until my hair is a curtain shrouding my lap and I’m staring into blackness, my breath hot and ragged. I want to cry. I don’t want to cry. I –

Nasrin’s palm glides across my shoulder, back and forth and back and forth, like polishing brass. “Every wife goes through this. Our men, they can be so neglectful of us. Believe me, I know. But things get better. They always do. Just pray to God for patience and give it time. Nooshin, are you listening to me?” After a while her voice sounds like a distant transmission, then it doesn’t sound like anything at all.