I have to admit that it took me a few seconds to recover my ability to form words the first time I saw Nicole. She has the kind of deliberate features (small nose, generous mouth, eyes of an indeterminate hue) and artless grace that combine to stamp sex and beauty all over any body. Natalie Portman with Angelina Jolie’s swag, a Botticelli in black jeans.

‘Holy shit! You’re stunning!’ Fuck. Why did I just say that? These people are going to think I’m a creepy lesbian.

‘Sorry, that sounded like a creepy lesbian.’ My concern jumped to the possible political incorrectness of what I had just said. Would it seem like I was insinuating that lesbians were inherently creepy? Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Nicole giggled. ‘You’re fine. I’m bisexual anyway. I can tell when I’m being hit on, and this isn’t it.’ She smiled at me again and I immediately felt comfortable. That was another thing about Nicole—her unmasked like or dislike for people shone through in her every interaction. And I could tell that she had taken an instant liking to me.

‘Oh, you’re bisexual? Like, both girls and boys?’ I was trying very hard to be nonchalant, attempting to pretend this wasn’t shocking me at all.

‘Mmhm.’ I thought I felt her acknowledge my nervousness. Months later, I asked her about it. She told me that she appreciated any attempt at making her feel less like a social leper than she already did. In turn, she didn’t quiz me incessantly about growing up in India (‘with servants?’) like everyone else, effectively making me feel more at home than the effusive protestations of those who seemed to feel the irrepressible need to proclaim wild excitement about naan and yoga when introduced to me.

Her speech had a slow cadence to it, but it was unhesitating, her words perfectly formed. She didn’t end her sentences with an unsure shrug or ‘you know what I mean’ the way I, and most other people of our age, did.

We were interrupted by Ziggy, from down the hall. Room 704.

‘Hey guys, I just got some dro in. Wanna smoke?’

Nicole stared at him.