Yeah, well. I have to go get this paper done. You always have to get something done. And on the blue moon that I do get to see you, there are all these crazy rules I’m supposed to be following like taking you home at five in the morning because you apparently can’t sleep in the same bed as someone else. You can’t treat me like this just because I’m in love with you, Tara.

Ugh.

Ugh.

Drunk and bored later that night, I lay in bed mindlessly scrolling through Facebook. It’s fucking Disneyland in there. The happiest fucking place on earth. It’s like a race to see who can make their lives appear the most fun. A contest where the person posting about absolute banalities with the highest number of exclamation points wins. I’m sure it was great getting off work twenty minutes early, but what sort of uninformed narcissism makes you think all seven hundred and twenty-two of your friends need to know exactly how pumped you were when that happened?

I stalked Jay’s profile, like I always did when I was lonely. Nothing new, as usual. I spent an hour looking through his old photos. The pictures of him sailing the Riviera with some stunning companions finally drove me away.

Fuck you.

I went and got another drink. Clear Belvedere in a water-spotted wine bulb.

Thomas had been yelling at me to do the dishes, but I knew that if I waited long enough, he would just do them himself.

Morose, I looked for the small, selfish comfort of being wanted.

Actual conversation would have been too much at that point, so I went to Mark’s profile page, to look at pictures of and posts from someone who loved me. I did sort of want to call him, but he would’ve been asleep by then. That’s what normal people do at three in the morning.

I stared blankly at his profile picture for a while, trying not to see a dark hand around a fair waist by the saturated blue of expensive waters.

Five hours ago, he had changed his Facebook status:

You should learn how to show your feelings so I know what to do with mine.

For a few minutes every day, I put on a ramrod pretence—I-am-not-drunk, I-am-not-high, I-am-not-fucked-up—and I talked to my mother—is-everything-okay and yes-yes-not-to worry all around.

‘Okay, great. Talk to you later, then, Mom. Need to get to class.’

‘Hold on, I need to talk to you about something. Nitwit is engaged.’

‘Good for her.’

‘You don’t need to use that tone.’

‘What? It is good for her. It’s what she’s been angling for since she hit puberty.’

‘Well, anyway, you’re going to have to come with me to Delhi for her roka.’

‘What’s a roka?’

‘It’s like an engagement ceremony. Makes things offi cial.’

‘So the groom can’t escape?’