That last thought shook her so much that she took the test three more times, just to be sure that the first one hadn’t been a false positive. It hadn’t—it had just been positive.

Eram picked her up on the busy street outside Varun’s place in a Honda that was somewhat in need of a paint job.

‘You do something with your hair?’ Eram cocked an eyebrow at her as soon as she strapped herself into the passenger seat, oblivious for the moment to the hostile traffic queuing up behind them.

The only thing more annoying than a guy who doesn’t notice anything is a guy who notices the wrong damn something, Gehna thought.

‘I washed it,’ she said, fluffing her hair out extravagantly so he couldn’t fail to catch a whiff. ‘With real shampoo. You should try it too, once or twice a year.’

He smiled, the points of his teeth gleaming blue in the pale nimbus of the stereo system’s display panel. When he leaned across her, Gehna went still, her heart thudding loudly against her ribs. She imagined that he would cup the back of her neck with a rough hand and press his mouth to hers, or bury those canines in her throat. Instead, he just flipped the door lock closed.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘The automatic thingie is broken.’

They drove to the cafe in easy silence with Natalie Merchant hitting the high-notes off the stereo (Sometimes, tell me, while she’s touching you/just by mistake/accidentally, do you say my name). Gehna thought that if only people looked like their voices, Natalie would be as beautiful as a rising day.

Mocha was a novel cafe which offered delights that Starbucks and Costa failed to match up to. Everything about it said eclectic; the coffees from faraway Paris and Africa were eclectic, the cheerful hanging lights and pastel upholstery were eclectic, and even the conflicting perfume from a dozen different-flavoured hookahs they allowed customers to smoke at tables was eclectic. Gehna was feeling quite giddy and grown-up as she ordered a press of Jamaican Blue Mountain, the most expensive item on the menu. Eram listened politely as their server tried to interest him in an exotic Kenyan AA or the more earthy Malabar filter. He asked for a cold coffee instead. And not a shake with Oreo cookies or Toblerone chocolate or vanilla ice cream. Just a cold coffee. Gehna felt a little let-down. She liked for people to indulge themselves when she was around so they’d always associate her with good times.

Maybe he’s one of those depressing diet freaks. To test him, she asked for a portion of cheesy nachos and watched Eram closely after it arrived; he didn’t so much as glance towards it. Oh, well, Gehna thought, more for me. She nibbled at the first nacho slowly, savouring the guacamole dip accompanying it. Then she went through the rest like a woodchipper.

They spoke of books, which Gehna consumed at a rate of two, sometimes three, a week. She was reading Sylvia Plath, Rohinton Mistry, Garcia Marquez—