Yasi Mousavi is a writer and comedian based in Los Angeles, CA. She received a bachelor of arts in philosophy with minors in sociology and screenwriting. Her work ranges from metaphysical expositions to short form prose. Personal writings are available on yargiwood.com.

When my boyfriend needs me, I smell Golds. Then vetiver. Then Bergamont. He smells good, always has. Even when he’s not really here, there’s a lovely fragrance in the air. Golds, vetiver, bergamot. My boyfriend smokes Marlboro Golds. He only smokes when I do. His kisses are wet and warm and taste like Olive Garden mint chocolates. My boyfriend is my alarm clock. He says he ought to wake me up nice. I’m prone to cranky bitch behavior before noon. He starts by rubbing the back of my neck while holding the unders of my belly. He likes to hold my stomach. I call it my pussy airbag. I take care of myself on mornings he’s there. I do my stretches in the living room. I lean into cat-cow and pretend he’s behind me. I arch my back deep and long, it hides the pussy airbag. He looks on while burning cheap toast. He lights an expensive vetiver candle to cover up the smell. He lets it burn for an hour. That shit costs $3.25 for every half hour but I don’t say a thing. On Sunday mornings, my boyfriend squeezes fresh orange juice and makes frittatas. The first time he made one he put pepperoni in it. Nobody puts pepperoni in breakfast food, certainly not a frittata. I ate around them. He stays on days he doesn’t work but when he leaves, I wait to smell him in the air. Even when he’s not really here, there’s a lovely fragrance in the air. Golds, vetiver, bergamot. My boyfriend is built like a tall tale. Curly brown hair and eyes that shine like the first day of snow in Syracuse, New York. My boyfriend is handsome. Not gorgeous. My mama said I’m too good looking to be loved by anyone below a 7. She’s right. He’s a 7.5.

My boyfriend's favorite meal is fesenjoon. My mama said he’s more Persian than me. I told her “we say Iranian now.”
My boyfriend’s sober. It helps me as much as it helps him.
My boyfriend doesn’t like tattoos but he doesn’t mind mine.
My boyfriend says I remind him of a grown up Sally Draper because my dad’s a mean man and it shows.
My boyfriend is older. Old enough to have had a paper route. Young enough to still remember most houses he’d deliver to. Old enough to write in perfect cursive. Young enough to use his hands inside me like a puppeteer on Sesame Street. Old enough for our age gap to make people bat an eye at us kissing in public but young enough that he can’t be confused for my father. He’s nowhere near mean enough.
My boyfriend calls me sweetheart, monster, azizam, and honey. I like some of those words. My boyfriend’s a big reader. He edits my work. Not this one.

My boyfriend sees right through me like I’m Mrs. Cellophane.

My boyfriend is a Roman Catholic. He treats my body like an altar. I pray for him in whatever religion I’m most aligned with that season. My boyfriend is a Gemini. There’s not much I can do about it. My boyfriend likes vintage cars and driving fast. I like when he moves his hand off the throttle and places it on my inner thigh.

I’m Shake and my boyfriend is Bake.

My boyfriend adores me like the sun in the south of France does a plot of lavender. My boyfriend has never hit me. My boyfriend has never pinned me down. My boyfriend has never yelled at me so hard the car fogged up. He’s never told me to lose weight or shave my legs or how to dress. Honestly, he can’t complain. I stalked every woman he’s been publicly linked with and deduced myself into the composite average. I’m the prettiest one.

My boyfriend always sees the good in people. I don’t know what he sees in me past cellophane. He got drunk one night and told me he found a dead body in a woman’s closet. He asked her on a date instead of calling the cops. I think he had too much to drink and wanted to tell me a fun story. I don’t think he was lying, he was trying to play make-believe. My boyfriend is a solid storyteller.

My boyfriend is 6’2.
My boyfriend is an actor first, comedian second, singer third.
His name is John C. Reilly. Even when he’s not really here, there’s a lovely fragrance in the air. When I need him, I smell Golds, vetiver, bergamot.