Leigh follows Seema into the bedroom, ignoring the warning shake of her head, and launches into a rapid patter about upcoming articles and interviews, Raj Goyle, the Indian American running for Congress in Kansas, and Jeremy Lin, the first Chinese American NBA player, clearly intended for Nafeesa’s and Tahera’s ears. As she helps Seema into something more suited to a walk outside, she stoops to cover Seema’s shoulders and belly with swift giggling kisses, which Seema decides, keeping an eye on the open bedroom door, is wiser to yield to than protest.

Back in the living room, cups of chai in their hands, they sit conversing as though they hadn’t just given in to teenage giddiness a few short moments ago, until Leigh puts her cup down and says, with an air of innocence, “Ready?”

They wait till they round the corner to hold hands. And then at the next corner Leigh leads Seema into a cul-de-sac, where they kiss, feverish and long, standing in the entrance of a recessed garage.

Afterward, Leigh sighs: “I needed that.”

“I know, I missed you too.” Seema chooses her words carefully.

At least San Francisco has conspired to give them a perfect October day for walking, for making up. The late afternoon sun is perched high above the hills to the west, skimming the hovering clouds, flooding the Mission with a light that clings to everything with a honeyed sheen—skin, hair, clothes, houses, streets. Above, the sky has yet to lose its limpid blue, and around, the air is humming with a warmed-over buzz, the city everywhere stretching languorously.

Seema tells Leigh about the ad against Prop 8 she’d written for the Harris campaign. They’ve rarely discussed the topic of marriage, both wary of broaching the subject, but this seems a safe step in that direction. Besides, Seema is proud of her work.

“That’s awesome,” Leigh says, with a kiss. “I must treat you to ice cream.”

There’s a line outside their favorite shop. They join it, still holding hands.

“When’s the baby due?” the woman behind the counter asks, as she hands them samples.

“Any time now,” Leigh answers for Seema.

The woman says, “Good luck, enjoy your baby! Is this your first?”

The woman’s glance includes both of them. Leigh looks to Seema as if for confirmation, a hint of expectation in her eyes.

“Yes,” Seema says, “my first.” She adds a smile to involve Leigh in complicity, hoping that would suffice, but Leigh’s shoulders drop. But what else could she have said? They’re not there yet, however much Leigh (or even she) might wish otherwise.

At the bottom of the path, they pause so Seema can rest a little before the climb up. They watch the couples in the tennis courts swinging their rackets and missing their serves with easy laughter. Beyond the tennis court, men battle on an uneven soccer field with animated shouts and grunts. And beyond them, on the slopes of the hill, are the afternoon sunbathers.