pulled out Jose’s manila envelope.
“ ‘Amina only’?”
“It’s just wedding stuff.” Amina reached for the envelope. “Gimme.”
Dimple pulled away, opening the flap.
“Wait, don’t!”
But it was too late. Dimple was already sliding the picture out, her face lighting up like she’d swallowed a sunset whole. “Holy Christ, what happened to her?”
“Nothing!”
“She OD’d?”
“She’s a grandmother!”
“So they can’t OD?”
“Dimple, give it!”
“Someone wanted a copy of
this
?”
“It’s not—yes. They did. Can you just—”
“Who made the print? Nice work.”
“Jesus, Dimple, it’s confidential! For a client! Can you not stick your nose into everything for, like, five seconds?”
Dimple looked at her heavily, as if to crush more information out of her, then, when it wasn’t forthcoming, shrugged and lit a cigarette. They rode in silence, smoke hovering between them.
“So what—”
“Dimple.”
“I was just going to ask what you think Sajeev’s going to be like this time, you freak.”
“Oh.” Amina’s shoulders dropped a tick. She tried to picture the skinny boy they had avoided as kids, the teenager they’d seen twice. “I dunno. The same. Quiet. Bucktoothed. Too small for his nose.”
Dimple laughed. “That’s mean.”
“It’s true. So, which bar?”
“The Hilltop,” Dimple said, and Amina groaned. The Hilltop was frequented by the kind of people who sized one another up by their shoes. “I know, I know, I tried to get him down to the Mecca. It wasn’t happening. He insisted on a place where he could get us dinner.”
“He’s getting us dinner? Isn’t it kind of … formal?”
“Dinner is nice.”
“But for us?”
“Listen, the whole conversation kind of threw me. One minute I was trying to figure out how to negotiate drinks down to coffee, and the next I was saying ‘Sure, yeah, dinner on you, great.’ ”
Amina looked at her cousin. “Are we going on a date with Sajeev?”
“Not even in his fantasies. There’s a space.”
The Hilltop was bustling, filled with polished faces of women who looked like the “after” images on a magazine makeover page, and men who looked for women who looked like that. Amina smoothed a hand over her own peach-colored dress, part of the wedding-ready work wardrobe that Dimple insisted on calling “Cadbury Couture.”
“Holy shit,” Dimple said, and Amina’s eyes homed in on the long arm waving to them across the bar, the dark eyes and smile just beneath it.
“Holy shit,” she agreed.
Sajeev had grown into his nose.
Truthfully, Sajeev Roy had grown in almost every way, and half an hour into the dinner conversation, Amina could not stop shifting her eyes from his overly white teeth (still slightly bucked) to his toned forearms, squinting like he was made of sun. Strangely, the years since high school had turned him
pretty
, the femininity of his thickly lashed eyes offering strange friction to his button-down shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes just nice enough to let you know they cost more than Italian leather. Something charged with vetiver and sandalwood escaped from the neck of his shirt every time he leaned over, leaving her aroused and suspicious. What kind of a guy wore cologne to dinner with family friends? Certainly not the Sajeev she had imagined they would be meeting. As he detailed where he lived (a few blocks away), what he was doing (programming centered on artificial intelligence), how he liked Seattle (all good but the rain), Amina slipped quietly into a dazed, oversaturated place. Dimple, for her part, was in rare form, her eyes and teeth and fork winking like flashbulbs as she gave him a three-minute life update for both of them.
“And what kind of work do you show at the gallery?” he asked.
He didn’t know Dimple well enough to catch the slight flare in her nostril, the disdain for what she often called an “art for beginners” question, but she humored him,
“ ‘Amina only’?”
“It’s just wedding stuff.” Amina reached for the envelope. “Gimme.”
Dimple pulled away, opening the flap.
“Wait, don’t!”
But it was too late. Dimple was already sliding the picture out, her face lighting up like she’d swallowed a sunset whole. “Holy Christ, what happened to her?”
“Nothing!”
“She OD’d?”
“She’s a grandmother!”
“So they can’t OD?”
“Dimple, give it!”
“Someone wanted a copy of
this
?”
“It’s not—yes. They did. Can you just—”
“Who made the print? Nice work.”
“Jesus, Dimple, it’s confidential! For a client! Can you not stick your nose into everything for, like, five seconds?”
Dimple looked at her heavily, as if to crush more information out of her, then, when it wasn’t forthcoming, shrugged and lit a cigarette. They rode in silence, smoke hovering between them.
“So what—”
“Dimple.”
“I was just going to ask what you think Sajeev’s going to be like this time, you freak.”
“Oh.” Amina’s shoulders dropped a tick. She tried to picture the skinny boy they had avoided as kids, the teenager they’d seen twice. “I dunno. The same. Quiet. Bucktoothed. Too small for his nose.”
Dimple laughed. “That’s mean.”
“It’s true. So, which bar?”
“The Hilltop,” Dimple said, and Amina groaned. The Hilltop was frequented by the kind of people who sized one another up by their shoes. “I know, I know, I tried to get him down to the Mecca. It wasn’t happening. He insisted on a place where he could get us dinner.”
“He’s getting us dinner? Isn’t it kind of … formal?”
“Dinner is nice.”
“But for us?”
“Listen, the whole conversation kind of threw me. One minute I was trying to figure out how to negotiate drinks down to coffee, and the next I was saying ‘Sure, yeah, dinner on you, great.’ ”
Amina looked at her cousin. “Are we going on a date with Sajeev?”
“Not even in his fantasies. There’s a space.”
The Hilltop was bustling, filled with polished faces of women who looked like the “after” images on a magazine makeover page, and men who looked for women who looked like that. Amina smoothed a hand over her own peach-colored dress, part of the wedding-ready work wardrobe that Dimple insisted on calling “Cadbury Couture.”
“Holy shit,” Dimple said, and Amina’s eyes homed in on the long arm waving to them across the bar, the dark eyes and smile just beneath it.
“Holy shit,” she agreed.
Sajeev had grown into his nose.
Truthfully, Sajeev Roy had grown in almost every way, and half an hour into the dinner conversation, Amina could not stop shifting her eyes from his overly white teeth (still slightly bucked) to his toned forearms, squinting like he was made of sun. Strangely, the years since high school had turned him
pretty
, the femininity of his thickly lashed eyes offering strange friction to his button-down shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes just nice enough to let you know they cost more than Italian leather. Something charged with vetiver and sandalwood escaped from the neck of his shirt every time he leaned over, leaving her aroused and suspicious. What kind of a guy wore cologne to dinner with family friends? Certainly not the Sajeev she had imagined they would be meeting. As he detailed where he lived (a few blocks away), what he was doing (programming centered on artificial intelligence), how he liked Seattle (all good but the rain), Amina slipped quietly into a dazed, oversaturated place. Dimple, for her part, was in rare form, her eyes and teeth and fork winking like flashbulbs as she gave him a three-minute life update for both of them.
“And what kind of work do you show at the gallery?” he asked.
He didn’t know Dimple well enough to catch the slight flare in her nostril, the disdain for what she often called an “art for beginners” question, but she humored him,
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