I wake up at 6:30 am. The bustling noise of the city has yet to reach my window. Our home is quiet. I get ready silently not to wake anyone up. I am ready in only five minutes and put my coat on as I move down the stairs hurriedly while trying to avoid making noise. I have no time to help my face out of its morning lassitude with a little makeup.

A chilly draft, not quite as powerfully cold as before, touches my face. This must be the spring breeze. A small pimple has been growing on my cheek for the past couple of days. I can even see it now with my eyes rolled down. I have an urge to squeeze it, to get done with it, but I don’t have the heart. {Hamed} tells me: “It’s nothing, really. No bigger than a pimple.”

The street is quiet. These days I try to get into the groove by watching people getting prepared for the New Year. The neighborhood shop’s sign -- an ad for a detergent over an orange background -- is new. It wishes us a happy New Year. A black car blinks its lights. I wonder what besides the usual greeting indicates the coming of the New Year. For example, can you make the moments pass by a bit more slowly with a sleight of hand? I move my hand and the taxi stops. I get on. The driver tells me without hesitation that he goes as far as the square. I write with my finger on the car window: "I will get off at the intersection." The driver doesn't notice this and pushes the gas pedal harder as he tells me that on Fridays the streets are not very busy at all. All the lights are green and our car moves briskly through them. In my mind, I try to think of a color that can define the New Year. He passes all the greens. "Red," I shout. He stops. I get off and jump on the bus at the cross section, looking tired and deserted with its empty cabin on this holiday. The bus and its driver are not in any kind of hurry and drive leisurely on the special lane. All shop windows are still closed. Only one person gets on at the next stop. It’s still breezy outside, as evident by the moving veils of a couple of female pedestrians. This wind carries with it all kinds of information, like the smell of gold fish in the back of the truck in front us, temporary guests they are of this big city, after which, with any luck, they may land in a tiny little pool.

I get off the bus and walk towards work. I open the door and leave behind it the morning breeze which flows stronger now than a half hour ago. I go up the spiral stairs and start my workday, which ends today at 1:30 pm. I am exhausted but I have to interact with the customers, wish them a great day and, at the end, give them a huge, glorious smile. I get to work quickly, and how fast the time passes. I am more exhausted. I stand beside the window and look at a crane which has been there since the first day I started work. It, too, is not allowed to be tired. There is work to be done every day. It is foggy outside and the crane is in the haze. I say good-bye to every one and move down the stairs to get home. The streets are busy now. This is the end of the year and you have to expect traffic. There isn’t much to complain about any ways. It’s a hustle and a bustle and it looks like a huge crowd of people at a party in a big parking lot. I move through people. My mind is not after recording any more scenes. It’s as if its yearly capacity to do so is filled. There are still a few more days left for the year to end, but I inadvertently recall a conversation with a new friend over a smoke break. The city is reaching for a new season, whether or not I am ready to remember its details.

I am nearly home. I have to think of something. What if I couldn’t even take note of a family picture at the Haft-Sin table? I look for my keys. Hamed is still asleep. The mirror shapes an image of me as I appear in front of it. The humdrum of the city, which now spills over the window frames, reminds us that the New Year is not far. The mirror reflects a pale, unmade up face. A swallow passes by. “Come on now," I tell myself, "quick, record it, there’s a memory.” I get a hold of my pimple with two fingers and squeeze it until a diluted, bloody pus oozes out. Before the swallow goes away, its memory is recorded in my mind. As easy as that, the year has become new.

Translated by Saeed Ganji