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deposit,” he said. He was so proud that he’d done it without his family’s help that she had to smile, and be proud of him, too. “It’s our house if we want.”
    “Wow,” she mumbled, while pushing hard against plaster and trying to remember to breathe.
    He opened a velvet box. Something sparkled. “My grandmother’s,” he explained. “Do you like it?”
    The ring was small and classy. Antique platinum. Perfect. She loved it. The house was perfect, too. She took a deep breath and held herself steady. Then again, it wasn’t perfect at all. This was a man who burst into the bathroom while she was showering, just to announce he was leaving for work. This was a man who, no kidding, really did eat crackers in bed. His grandparents had survived famine, and as a result he thought that food equaled love. When she came home from school at night, he scampered out of the bedroom like a puppy dog: “How was your day? Did you have a good day?…I baked you this pie! Eat my delicious rhubarb pie!”
    No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get his shoes to line up nicely, or his furniture to shine quite right. She never wanted to admit it, but she knew why. It wasn’t her furniture. It wasn’t her apartment. The thing about other people is, they’re not you.
    “You make me a better man,” Saraub said.
    She took a breath. And another. And another. Imagined the house full of voices. A barking dog. Meddling in-laws with really good table manners, who corrected her when she used soup spoons to stir her tea. A kid or two. Indian kids! On holidays, she’d have to dress them in saris. The rest of the time, they’d want to know how to tie their shoes. They’d need burping, and bathing. They’d need mothering, and who was fooling whom, she could hardly take care of herself.
    “What do you say?” Saraub asked.
    She put out her left hand and told him the truth. “I really love you,” she said.
    He slipped on the ring, which fit as neatly as Cinderella’s glass slipper.
    When they got home that night, they made love. It was good, and slow, and for a little while, she thought maybe it would all work out, and they really would live happily ever after. But after he fell asleep, she was restless. She got up and rearranged all the dishes. Saucers in front, bowls in back. Then she took everything out, and relined the cabinets. Then she put the dishes back, and stopped eating.
    Two days later they went out to Daniel Restaurant for a fancy French dinner to celebrate their engagement. They split a bottle of wine. On an empty stomach, the booze hit her fast. She turned into a blabbermouth. Everything she’d held in since they’d started dating gushed out. “I need a break,” she said, “Not from you. From my life. I’m so tired, all I want to do is sleep. Don’t you ever get sick of this city? It’s so noisy. It never stops. I thought I’d move out for a while. Find a sublet or go to a hotel. Just to catch up on my sleep, you know?” The worst part was the shock that resolved into puckered hurt on his face, like she’d punched him, and he was trying to show he could take it like a man.
    “Okay. I understand,” he told her while smashing his wild okra into mush. Still drunk, unaware he was closeto crying, she’d continued. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but you drive me crazy, you know?”
    That was when he covered his face with his hands so she didn’t see his tears. She felt so bad that she stopped talking. The rest of the dinner, she didn’t look up from her plate because she was afraid that if she saw him crying, she’d start crying, too.
    He slept on the couch that night. In the sober light of morning, she was ashamed. What a terrible way to break such news. Most of the time, she liked him just fine. More than anybody else, at least. She’d considered crawling onto the couch with him. When he woke up, she’d eat as many runny Velveeta omelets as he cooked, if that was what made him happy. “I’m