Marriage was just a word to me when Saman first became a picture in my hands. I was a high school senior, 18 years naive, and prohibited from dating because I was a good Muslim girl. While all my American friends were gossiping about crushes and boyfriends and putting out, I was getting married. My family was out of their heads with happiness, and I envisioned a future of movie star closeups and soft-focus kisses and swelling soundtracks, and all the lazy carefree pointlessness of my teenage years aligned into a certainty with a man’s name.

I didn’t know what to expect, marrying Saman. At first I felt like a girl transformed into a woman, glowing with maturity, having sex. Then I stepped into a scene from my childhood, playing house with dolls only for real. After years of domesticity I began to think marriage is a partnership, like two socks that always come out of the washer and dryer together, never losing one another despite countless launderings.

I never imagined I’d feel so utterly alone, more distant from my husband than the stars. I never anticipated running away like I did. And I definitely didn’t expect this — standing behind his recliner in the bluish flickering glow of the television, digging my fingers into the hairy flesh of his shoulders, massaging away the tension of his hard day.

“How does that feel?” I ask after a while, when my forearms begin to cramp.

“Mmmm,” Saman says. His thumb moves on the outstretched remote and the channel changes, from an Egyptian newscast to some kind of televised poker game. “Keep going.”

“In Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus there’s this — ”

“You and your self-help books,” he interrupts dismissively.

I keep going with my fingers and my conversation. ” — there’s this chapter about how men and women have different ideas of contribution to a relationship. Men think in big singular terms, women think in little multiple ones. Like, a man might think supporting her is worth 50 points and then he’s done. But to a woman bringing home a paycheck is only 1 point. To her everything he does is only 1 point. A paycheck, flowers, taking out the garbage. 1 point. So a man needs to do lots of little things to make a woman happy.”

“That is the most stupid thing I have ever heard.” There’s another click from beneath Saman’s thumb. The TV jumps to a football game. Giants in body armor move in regimented ways — separating from each other, huddling, lining up — then break into chaos again. “Americans are funny, calling this game football and the real football soccer.”

“Can I have my cellphone back?” I sigh. “I’d like to talk to my family more often.”

“You can talk to them anytime you want. On my cellphone.”

“But that means I can only talk to them when you’re here.”

“Exactly. You must regain my trust. Then you can have your cellphone back.” He flips to an animal show about penguins. His shoulders bob impatiently beneath my flagging hands. “Keep going.”

“My arms are getting tired. Can I take a break?”

“I said keep going!”

His explosion startles me back into vigorous massage. I dig my fingers into the hairy flesh, pain flaring up my arms.

“Like that, yes. Mmmm.”

For a while we’re locked in our relative positions. Saman tires of the animal show and flips back to the football game. I try to lose myself in the vivid hues radiating from the screen — unnaturally green fields, stark uniform colors, referees in black and white.

“My mother is coming for a visit,” he says after a while.

“What?” I almost shriek.

“I thought you might like some company.” There’s a smugness to his tone. Company — yeah, right. She’s going to watch me when he can’t.

“You don’t know what your mother is like when you’re not here. All she does is nag me. About my cooking, even my cleaning. And especially about starting a family.” I approximate her nasally Farsi. “Een rezhim-e ishghalgar-e qods bayad az safheh-ye ruzgar mahv shavad?” — When are you going to give Saman a son?

“She nags me as well.” He reaches back to pat one of my forearms, which has gone so numb I can barely feel his touch. “We are married five years now. Our families are impatient for children.” His voice softens. “That is your real problem, Nooshin. A wife without children is unhappy. She only has her husband to live for. You will be happy when we have children.”

I think of the birth control pills I tip into my palm every morning. The mechanistic act I endure almost every night. My belly swelling with new life, his and mine. Trying to nurse a baby with this flat useless chest. Then trying to nurse another, and maybe another. Raising a family in his itinerant shadow. The forever with him — and my mother-in-law, and the rest of his family. The forever and ever and ever.

“I want you to stop taking your pills.” Saman tilts back to look at me. His face is more handsome upside-down. “Yes?”

“Maybe,” I finally say, and the word meant to be an evasion feels more like a bottomless collapse, a girl free-falling inside herself.