I talk about the lives I used to love. He blathers on about Rushdie’s egregious misuse of the English language, which I staunchly defend. He tells me about all these words, how they are all just shouts in the void. We volley this idea back and forth until we finish our meal, and for a brief sliver of time, I am unencumbered by the things on the long list of things that adulthood demand of me. Life is simple again.
I briefly get to talk to F and S over the phone, and tonight they feel like they are right next to me and not hundreds of miles away. Love feels close and within my reach again.
I cross the street to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy and catch my own reflection on the glass door as I exit: my dress, rich gold and green satin, is cold on my skin and flutters – as I move – in the late evening breeze with such liquid grace. In this particular moment I cease to be just another Asian expatriate in the gulf and J’s Land Cruiser is no longer just a truck with leather seats gloved in faux fur. Tonight, I am an exotic Indian princess about to ascend onto my palanquin perched on a white elephant.Read More Once Upon a Sandbox Winter