There must have been guilt on his face—or something else. She pulled away from him. “What is it?” she asked. Her eyes expressed his own worry. He was surprised at how well she knew him. The decision was an intangible thing, but he could feel the truth of it come between them, as if it had shape and form.

“After the harvest next spring, I will go home,” he blurted out. It was a relief to say it out loud.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, then the knowledge settled. Her face flushed, slowly. “You never cared for me, did you?” she said.

This way of speaking about care was strange to him, as if care were an active thing, not prescribed by the situation. Who were they to each other, after all? Neither Punjabi nor Mexican society recognized them; how could they define themselves? They stood in a borderland, belonging to no one, to neither side, undefined. He wished he had said nothing.

“I do not get your meaning, Adela,” he said. A torrent of water was rising around him. He was about to drown. “We can continue until I leave.” He hoped she would be satisfied, perhaps smile just as she had when she had greeted him at the door.

“Continue what?”

“Continue—like this.” His glance took in the fabric room, the clouded window and shabby curtain, the sewing machine wedged in the corner. He felt a surge of shame, then of fear.

“There is nothing to continue,” she said.

“What is the matter?” he said. But she had already thrown her shawl around her shoulders, opened the door, and left him alone in that cluttered room.

He did not allow himself to go after her. There were people on the street now, and the future had just opened in an uncertain direction. He did not have the courage of the weekend before, when they had walked together outside. He waited until the people were gone, and by that time, she had disappeared.

In the days that followed, he thought about what had happened but could not understand it. For the four years they had visited that sewing room, she had known that he was married. By accepting him, she had accepted this fact. It was a simple issue—Mexican women were peculiar. Why had she run off like that?