My husband is home again. Back from doing whatever it is he does for money. Crunching numbers, probably. Maybe earning another windfall for the family business. Putting that business degree to better use than decorating our living room wall. I’m forced to guess because Saman refuses to discuss work in mixed company, not even with his wife. A traditional Iranian man never does.

He returned to an apartment with a view of Arrowhead Stadium and the shrunken skyscrapers of downtown Kansas City. The refrigerator stocked with his favorite staples — kibbeh, saffron rice, bottles of Coke. All his laundry folded away or hung. Mail and newspapers in separate piles on the counter. Everything waiting for him except his wife. The only trace of me is a note on the kitchen table, a napkin scribbled in purple with English words:

Went to visit my sister. Call me if you want. –Nooshin

The kind of note that screams for attention. But every day the calendar becomes more incomprehensible to me. Saman returned from New York on Friday. Now it’s Sunday. Still my cellphone doesn’t ring, just sits there in my purse like a useless thing.

Farid doesn’t shuttle me anywhere today. Instead I wait on my husband’s attention. I laze on the couch, banded with sunlight from the blinds. Memorizing the cable channels. Reading Dr. Phil’s Relationship Rescue Workbook cover to cover again. Fidgeting with the heirloom wedding ring that originally belonged to Saman’s great-grandmother, who married into his family three generations ago. But my husband never calls, and eventually I quit the couch when the living room fills up with a niece and nephew who want to watch cartoons.

Before bedtime I break down and utter a name into my cellphone — “Saman.” Our connection flickers like a darkening world. His life is the same with me as without me, and I’m still staring into my own private abyss, and it was stupid to call him with need in my voice.

I pace as far as the guest bedroom allows, two strides toward the closet door and two strides back. “How are you?”

“Fine. I am fine. I had a good business trip.” His thickly-accented English is even thicker than usual. Distracted. I can hear a soccer game in the background, the dull throbbing roar of a crowd, whistles blowing.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I am? I’m your wife, after all. You should care how I am.”

An irritated sigh fills my ear. “How are you?”

“I’m swell, thanks. That’s why I went to visit my sister without telling you. Because I’m so swell.”

Another irritated sigh. “Nooshin.”

“What?”

“I did not call because I am angry with you. You do not leave home without my approval!”

Saman is right, of course. I should’ve told him. The guilt is the same dull throb I’ve been feeling ever since I bought my plane ticket. That’s why I change the subject. “My birthday is coming up. Next week. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do.” But I can tell he’s lying. He forgot about my birthday, just like he always does. We go through ancient motions — I complain about his forgetfulness and neglect, he denies everything.

Then I shock myself by saying, “Why don’t you just divorce me?”

There’s an excruciating pause, as if I dropped our darkening world and it shattered on the floor.

“Why don’t you just divorce me?” I ask again, the words almost strangled.

“What kind of talk is this? You are my wife!”

“I’m your wife,” I echo limply.

Saman switches from English to Farsi, struggling to communicate. “Yes, you’re my wife. The mate I brought into my family. The keeper of my house. The mother of my future children. You are all these things to me!” Another excruciating pause. “Do these things faithfully, and paradise will be yours.” He’s reduced to paraphrasing admonitions from the Qu’ran.

I don’t say anything. I watch my bare feet pace the floorboards.

“Nooshin? This isn’t like you. I don’t know what’s gotten into you. Are you that unhappy with Kansas City?” There’s a roar from the soccer game. His attention drifts back to it. I can hear the Doppler shift in his voice, from coming to going. “We have lots of family here, all my uncles and aunts and cousins. We have a nice apartment. We, uh…”

“Saman, are you there?”

“What did you say?” After a while he raises his voice over the background noise. “Did you just say something?”

“It must be a good game.”

“It is! Iran versus Qatar. We’re winning, 1-0.” Saman’s attention returns to me, his dirty laundry, the dishes piling up in the sink. “You must come home.”

Never. I want to say I’m never coming home. I should free myself — both of us — from this loveless charade.

He sharpens with expectation. “Tomorrow. I want you home tomorrow.”

“Can’t I stay for a while, since I’m already here? Please, Saman. I never get to visit my sister. Or my parents in LA. We’re thinking of driving up — ”

“Where is your place, wife?”

I take a deep breath, and the breath is full of surrender. To him. To his family and mine. To everything in this whole stupid world, really. “My place is with you, husband.”

“You can stay until next weekend. But you must always be escorted, is that understood? I don’t want people thinking that I allow my wife to roam like a loose camel.”

“Okay.” Guilt leaks into the word.

“Then it’s agreed,” Saman says, more distant than the stars. “I’ll transfer money to your cash card so you can buy a return ticket. Call me with your flight information so I can pick you up.” And the connection goes dead.