Kitty says, “You should be writing.”
Yes, kitty. Okay.
*****
Nami’s story, scene 3:
“So why don’t you invite her to the welcome dance?” Surinder asked, in between contented chomps of his fried chickpea snack.
“Oh, let that go already,” Nami said. She really didn’t have time for this; she didn’t even have time to sit down for a meal, which was why they’d grabbed snacks at one of the food carts and were now power-walking to the far end of campus for class. “I barely met the girl.”
The biology building’s cart was experimenting with a new, supposedly hardy strain of mango, and Nami had snagged a student-discounted sample that was shockingly cheap. She supposed that was the price of being lab rats for the biologists, but she wasn’t complaining as she bit into the slice of mango, drenched in lime juice, chili, and salt. All the little gods – that was almost better than sex. Nami licked her lips, and hungrily tore off another piece with her teeth.
Surinder nodded. “It’s true that you barely met her, but it’s also true that you keep drifting off into silent reveries, undoubtedly contemplating those perfect lips – you have a thing for lips, you know that.”
“I do not,” Nami said automatically, while silently admitting that maybe she did. She took a few more bites of mango, buying herself time to think. Her last partner had had gorgeous lips too. And gorgeous eyes. A gorgeous face all around, in fact, which ended up being in no way an indicator of a kind heart. Nami was well rid of them, she told herself firmly. Besides, it had been months.
Surinder tipped the last of the chickpeas into his mouth, disposed of the paper cone in a recycling bin, and then leapt up onto a passing bench, throwing open his arms to declaim. Oh no.
“Nam’kuko Kahale! Do you really think that after we were decanted from our respective mothers’ uterine replicators side-by-side, after we went swimming together at five years old in our underpants, after we wept broken-hearted in each others’ arms at the end of our first loves, after eighteen years of best-friendship, that I don’t know you? I know you intimately!”
He was projecting, and people were stopping to stare and chuckle. Nami reached out and yanked him down with a mango-sticky hand, her face flushing hot. “You are a thrice-damned idiot.” Nami tossed the mango seed into a compost bin, and, in childish frustration, wiped her hands dry on his kurta top.
“Yes,” Surinder agreed amiably, only smiling in response. “But I’m your best friend idiot. So when I tell you that if you go to Room 311 in the Fine Arts Building after this class, you’re likely to run into…oh, what was her name? Ah yes, Selah – “
“Selah-na-Sorayyah, of Brightness Falling.” The name slipped out of Nami’s mouth, without her willing it. Then her brain caught up to what Surinder had said – “Hey, did you look at her schedule? That’s stalking! You can’t do that.”
He shook his head. “I beg to differ. It would be stalking if you looked up her schedule. Me, I’m just a casually interested colleague of yours who happened to noticed a harmless piece of information in passing as I cleaned up the admissions files for the day.”
Nami sighed. “Let it go, please. We’re going to be late for class if we don’t hustle.” What she really wanted to do was go back and get another slice of mango, even if it did end up having strange biological effects on her. It had been so good.
Maybe he did know, and knew that she was at the end of her patience, because Surinder threw up his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll let it go. For now.”
They’d made it to the classroom, and were slipping inside, not even a minute left before start of class. But as they slid into their seats, Surinder silently sent her a final message: ‘Room 311!’
Idiot.
*****