The Wife Called: Part Two
Sequel to 'The Wife Called'
Apologies to those who subscribe to both my lists and get this twice.
This is sort of a sequel to or at least part of the story of my last short story ‘The Wife Called’
Terms of Affairs
“Coming today? I bought new biscuits.”
“What kind of biscuits?”
“The expensive ones. With chocolate.”
“Are they British?”
“Does it matter?”
“I prefer British biscuits with my tea.”
“They’re fucking biscuits. Yes or no?”
“Yes. 3 PM as usual.”
“I’ll hide the cheap biscuits so you don’t see them.”
“Thank you. That’s considerate.”
She arranges the peacock cups at 3:00 PM. Earl Grey measured into the small metal strainer, sugar cube placed beside his cup. The expensive British biscuits arranged on a plate like tiny brown soldiers. The office, with the divan, where they normally sit, clenches afternoon heat like a closed fist.
Her phone shows 3:17 PM.
“Running a bit late. Traffic is very philosophical today.”
“What does that mean?”
“Very slow and contemplative.”
She sets the phone face-up on the coffee table, its black screen reflecting time’s cruel elastic nature. Outside, Delhi moves in contradictory rhythms—some minutes stretching like elastic around one’s waist. While others wrapped so tight, strangle the waist till one can’t breath.
At 3:45, she waters the single plant she has managed to keep alive since moving here. A small jade succulent that her sister brought from Mumbai, its thick leaves dusty despite her weekly cleaning. Water beads on the waxy surface and rolls onto the windowsill.
“Still coming?”
The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again. Her thumb hovers over the phone screen, leaving a small smudge on the glass.
“Yes. Just delayed.”
She places the phone on the kitchen counter, then picks it up again. The first fat raindrops spatter against the glass, each one exploding into smaller droplets that race downward in zigzag patterns.
At 4:30, the rain begins in earnest. Heavy monsoon drops that turn dust to mud instantly, that send vendors scrambling to cover their fruit carts with blue plastic tarps. The sound against her window is like fingers drumming impatiently.
She reheats the water in the kettle twice.
“Where are you?”
“Still at office. It’s raining.”
Her fingernail, painted in a shade of coral that looked different in the New York light, taps against the phone case. Three quick taps, pause, three more.
“And?”
“I might get wet.”
“You’re not made of sugar.”
“What?”
“You won’t dissolve.”
