“You weren’t right with me,” a voice says. The East Asian woman, who had been leaning into Ben’s body in the kitchen area, has sat down at the table with a bowl of olives. “Let’s see, what did you say again? Delicate, precise pencil drawings, right? And small? You were just racially stereotyping me.” Ben comes and sits down too, but he doesn’t look at me. He fixes his attention on James instead, who has put his hands up and is saying, “Give it time, give it time, you just haven’t found yourself yet.” Maria slaps James around the head.

“Have you guys met yet?” Maria asks, gesturing back and forth among Ben, the East Asian woman, and me.

“Oh, yeah, I know Ben,” I say.

“I, er,” Ben looks at Maria when he says this. “I showed Lydia around on her first day.” For a moment, it looks like everyone is waiting for Ben to introduce me to the East Asian woman, and it looks like she is expecting him to too. But Ben just looks down at the table. “I’m Anju,” the woman eventually says, after shooting Ben a confused look, and she holds her hand out for me to shake.

Anju, a voice seems to say in my head. It’s Anju. And I feel a weird sense of superiority. I’ve tasted a sample of her fiancé’s life, I’ve felt hints of his grief, hints of his passion, experienced in a brief flash his birth. I smile.

“Lyd,” I say, and I glance momentarily over at Ben, who doesn’t look up. “So . . . what kind of work do you make?” I ask, to ease the tension.

“I paint,” Anju says.

“Oh, right. What kind?”

Ben gets up from his seat, mutters, “Back in a minute” under his breath, and walks out of the room. His footsteps fade away.

“Kind of large-scale portraits.”

“Anj’s work’s amazing,” Shakti says, arriving at the table. She lays down a plate of eggplant, now split down the middle and stuffed with something that is a deep red color. “Are you eating, Lydia?” Shakti asks. “There’s plenty.”

“Oh, actually I ate already,” I say.

“Ooh, what did you have?” James asks.

“Duck,” I say, instinctively, “but it looks amazing. What is that, harissa?” Shakti nods and smiles at me. As I say this, I become aware of the duck blood circulating around my system; I can almost feel it, moving down my arms, reaching my fingertips, looping back up, searching for wings on my back.

“Wine?” James asks and tilts a bottle in the direction of a glass in front of me.

“No thanks.” I shake my head.

“Hey.” An older guy sits down at the table, with another woman who says hello quietly, in a thick German accent. “I’m Mark, this is Utte,” the man says, and I reach over the table to shake their hands.