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Saturday morning was Amma and Appa time, Sunday morning it was Ravi. That’s if he didn’t postpone it to play tennis or cricket. When he was available to talk, he dialed her, as was their custom. She sat on her bed, leaning against pillows bolstered against the shower wall.
“So, how was your week,” he asked. He certainly did show an interest in her life, she had to admit.
She told him about everything except her boss’s financial woes, the poetry slam, and the glass of wine. In other words, I’m not telling him most of my life.
He looked very appealing in her laptop screen in a freshly pressed white shirt. His brown skin was flawless, his jaw square and manly.
“What’s up with you today?” she asked.
“Mum is making fresh rotis and chicken curry.”
Anjali knew that his mother made the rotis and ground all twelve of her curry spices by hand, and that the food would be tremendous. Even purchased in the stores in La Chapelle neighborhood, the Indian spices available in Paris weren’t as potent as those at home. At home? Wherever that was. She suddenly longed to eat his mother’s, her mother’s, cooking, something that would be possible if she returned.
She fought off the longing. She could have Italian food here in Paris, French, Chinese, Thai.
“And you?” he asked.
“I’m going to write this afternoon,” she said.
“You work seven days a week?”
“I have to capitalize on my time here.”
“I miss you,” he said. His gaze was on something lying next to his laptop.
Did he really?
“Miss you, too,” she said. But did she really?
