This is part of a series of stories that’s the India version of the David/Airbnb Saga (which eventually will all become one collection)
THE WIFE CALLED
“Your wife called,” she said, not looking up. She focused instead on the mint she was crushing in her mortar and pestle. “I answered.”
He sat upright in bed in a way he was never able to do while they were actually in bed. “You what?”
“She has a lovely voice. Very cultured. We had quite a chat.”
“Please tell me you’re drunk.”
“I told her you were in the shower. That you’d slipped getting out of your car in the rain and landed in a puddle, so I’d insisted you come upstairs to clean up before driving home with pneumonia.”
His face turned the color of the curd rice Kamala made for her in the summers and kept in the kitchen with a plate covering the bowl. “What the fuck—”
“I also told her I was Mrs. G from 3B, recently widowed, and that I’d been bringing you homemade ladoos because you looked thin.”
She finally looked at him and smiled that particular smile she’d perfected during her own marriage. The smile at every woman has perfected in her own way over generations. Centuries.
“She invited me to dinner next week.”
“Not funny.”
“It’s hilarious. She wants to introduce me to her unmarried brother-in-law. Apparently he needs a nice widow to settle down with.”
He was pulling on his clothes with the frantic energy of a man who just woke up after an accidental nap.
“Did you tell her anything else?”
“That you’re a wonderful neighbor. Very helpful with heavy groceries. She seemed pleased that there are still good men in the world.”
“Good men don’t fuck their neighbors twice a week.”
“Good men don’t fuck their neighbors at all.”
