“Can you not? Everyone loves your face!” I yell back, and she rolls her eyes, but a hint of a smile pulls at her lips as she lets her hair fly back once more.
“This is amazing!” Priti howls, her hands cupping her mouth.
I join her, and we bay like twin wolves until the end of the tunnel, cramped close together in this small space. We leave the lights behind, rushing out the other side, and the expansive, open sky fills my vision again.
“The stars look so beautiful,” I effuse, craning my neck upward. The trees and hills fringe my vision, scraping the horizon, and it feels like we’re driving through a huge dome. It’s in moments like these I wonder how people before Aristotle ever believed the Earth could beflat. How peoplestillbelieve the Earth is flat.
There’s one more tunnel on the expressway, and then Rudra has to inform us, “That was the last one,” for us to finally settle down.
My eyes are so dry I have to keep them closed for long intervals. Priti’s wavy hair stands up in a frizzy halo around her face, as if she’s been cupping a Van de Graaff generator, and she looks ridiculous. I burst into laughter.
But there’s no bitter clapback or heated glare. Not like usual. In fact, she laughs too, acting more like the Priti she used to be before I moved.
More like the Priti who used to be my best friend.
9
Asexual People Are Excellent at Doling Out Romantic Advice—or So They Claim
Pune, Saturday
When we reach Pune, it’s midnight, but the city is as alive as it would be during the day.
“Take a left, just here,” I say, glancing down at my phone.
Rudra takes the turn into a driveway leading to a massive food court occupying two floors of the five-story building. There’s a sign sayingPure Veg Restaurantabove the glass entrance, and golden lights illuminate the interior. The floors above house other restaurants, and at the very top, perched on the roof of the building, is a red neon sign readingOYO Townhouse.
“Thisis the OYO?” Rudra asks. “It looks fancy.”
“What, you thought I’d book us a cheap-ass room?” Priti says. “Phoo. I might be broke now, but I have standards. Oh, and you both owe me a thousand rupees each.” I’m already taking out my phone to send her the money. Ihateowing people, especially Priti.
After Rudra finds a space to park, we get out of the car and I stretch my arms and legs, sighing in satisfaction as I hear four distinct pops.
“Grab your bags, bitches,” Priti says, hauling out her three pieces of luggage. I tug mine out too—I packed lighter than usual, so they’re easy to carry.
As Rudra loops his hand through the strap of his guitar case, hefting it onto his shoulder, a lock of hair unlooses from his ponytail. I stretch my hand out to push it away, then realize what thehellI’m doing and jerk it back so hard my suitcase topples and falls smack on my toes.
Owwww.
I wince and start doing a one-legged hop while clutching my foot, and Rudra watches me, his lips twitching as he tries to repress a smile. When the throbbing pain from my toes subsides, I set my leg down and sheepishly look up at Rudra, who witnessed the whole Krishna-being-a-clumsy-dork-for-the-millionth-time-in-her-life debacle.
“You good?” he asks, and purses his lips.
“Yeah, erm—I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Once inside the OYO, we walk into a huge lobby that is miles better than I thought it would be. Not that I have much experience with OYOs, but they’re the same as Airbnbs—mid-quality, affordable, and unmarried-couple-friendly rooms, which helps when you have partner(s) to have sex with. Me? Zero partners, and definitely zero sex. I’m soanything-deprived I nearly brushed Rudra’s hair away from his face.
Priti checks us in, and we’re taken to the fifth floor, where we’re handed keys to two rooms on opposite sides of the corridor. Rudra takes the room on the right, while Priti and I enter the one on the left.
There’s an awkward moment as I pause, unsure whether I should saygood nightorsee you tomorrowto Rudra. But Priti doesn’t, and Rudra barely throws me a glance before he enters his room. I think the better of it, not wanting to embarrass myself any further (I’ve already hit max on the meter for the week), and lumber in after Priti.
“This is neat,” I observe, scouring the room. Spotless sheets on the double bed, no weird marks on the wall (the last time I stayed in an OYO was during our cousins’ trip to Daman, and there were these handprints on the wall; I didn’t dare imagine where or whom they’d come from), and a clean-looking toilet.
Thank god. A road trip is theworsttime to get a UTI.
Priti sprawls on the bed, her shoes discarded to the side and luggage tucked away into the wardrobe. “Could you turn on the AC? I’m drowning in sweat.”
I grab the remote from the bedside table and turn it on, sighing in relief as the cool wind gusts through the room. I lie on the bed beside Priti, both of us watching the ceiling fan spin.
