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beautiful sound.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?”
    She said nothing but kissed me fully for long time.
    â€œJess, can I ask you something?”
    I was fearful of what she would ask when I replied. “Sure.”
    â€œWhat’s going on with the manuscript? You never talk about it.”
    â€œIt’s coming along.”
    â€œWhat’s your fear?”
    I stared at her.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI mean what are you afraid of?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œIt just seems like you want to write this story and then you really don’t want to write it at the same time.”
    How did she know me as well as she did? It was true I did want to write this story. But it was also true that I was scared shitless. I pushed the thought away, far, far away, deep inside my brain so even if I wanted to, it would be hard to think of again. At least for now.
    â€œI don’t want to talk about it,” I said, nervous that she would make me discuss it and spill my fear across the table for both of us to see.
    â€œYou never do. Seems like you never want to talk about anything with me.”
    â€œIt’s not that. It’s not that at all. It’s just that I don’t want to talk about this. Why the fuck is that so hard for you?”
    â€œWhy are you screaming at me?”
    â€œSorry. I am.”
    In the silence that followed, we tried not to look at each other. I wondered how we had gotten here, what steps we had taken and what steps we had missed that we could love each other so much and yet not even be able to talk to each other. I felt compelled to say something, anything at all.
    So I said, “Anjali, listen, you do your thing and I’ll do my thing. And if…when…when at the end we are together, then it will be beautiful.”
    I put my dishes in the sink and turned to leave.
    She was crying softly, tears slowly slipping from her pale green eyes.
    â€œDon’t go, Jess. If I said something wrong, forgive me. Please don’t leave just yet.”
    She hugged me and then held me. I put my arms around her.
    â€œYou said nothing wrong, jaan. Nothing.”
    â€œWhen at the end we are together, then it will be beautiful,” she said so softly I almost didn’t hear her. But I heard her enough to realize she hung on my every word, my every sound, my very being. I swallowed and the guilt was back in a lump in my throat. I looked away from her. Then at her. I kissed her.
    I did not leave.
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Chapter Four
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    I did not leave forever but I did leave for the day. I put on some blue jeans and a short black kurta that my mother had sent me along with two boxes of sandalwood soap and a tin of incense. It was the first time I was wearing the kurta and I liked the way it felt, the cotton cool against my body. It billowed when I moved, a sliver of skin visible around my waist if I reached upwards. I slipped on a pair of black ankle socks and Nike sneakers, all black, soft, supple and low. And then I quietly left the apartment, Anjali on the couch pretending to watch TV as I left, some Bollywood movie that I knew was too old and too violent to actually hold her attention.
    â€œBye. I’ll be home early,” I tried.
    She nodded her head as if she were so engrossed in her movie that she barely understood me when I knew full well that she had heard and she would be waiting, martini in hand, for my return as dusk approached. I almost didn’t leave. But then Poet’s Walk caught my eye and uneasiness filled my entire body. I knew I had to see her again if only to buy another photograph. I closed the door quietly.
    As I sat on the subway, I sensed sandalwood and Queen of the Night mingled with mogra as scents mingled and rose to me from the fabric of my kurta. I closed my eyes and thought of my mother, making pale brown paste and then anointing me at a temple amidst the sound of bells and chanting pundits. I could almost feel the petals of hyacinth