I blink. “What?”
“I cook.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “My mother believed I should help my wife,” he continues casually. “So she taught me how.”
I stare at him.
“Lucky me,” I chuckle. Heat creeps up my neck before I can stop it. I turn quickly back to the stove, pretending to be very focused on the khichdi. "You don't have to, I don't want to ask too much of-"
"Oh please, we are married now, Divya." I am hyper-aware of his presence right behind me because I can almost feel his breath on my neck.
I hear Neel whisper loudly from the dining table, “Didi is blushing.”
“I am not,” I shriek. Aditya laughs, looking amused.
Dinner ends up being simple. Three bowls of khichdi. Some pickle. And a surprisingly comfortable conversation.
Neel asks approximately twenty questions about books. Aditya answers all of them with surprising patience.
At one point Neel asks very seriously, “Do you read every book in your office?”
Aditya considers this carefully.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because some books are terrible.”
Neel gasps. “Books can be terrible?”
“Absolutely.” Neel looks personally offended.
I watch the two of them and realize something strange. They look… natural together. Like they’ve been having conversations like this for years. When dinner is finished, Neel disappears to brush his teeth.
And suddenly the house is quiet again. Aditya glances toward the bedroom. “There’s only one bed.”
I freeze.
Right. Of course. He clears his throat. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“No.”
The word leaves my mouth immediately. He looks surprised. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” I say quickly. “You just moved your entire life here.”
“I’ve slept on worse floors.”
“That doesn’t make this acceptable.”
He studies me for a moment. Then sighs lightly. “Alright.”
So we end up in the most awkward situation imaginable. Two strangers. Legally married. Sharing a bed for the first time. The lights are off. The room is quiet. We both lie stiffly on opposite edges of the mattress like there’s an invisible border between us. My brain is doing an excellent job of reminding me of that every five seconds.
For several minutes neither of us speaks.
Then I sigh quietly. “I’m sorry.”
The streetlight outside slips through the thin curtain near the window, casting a pale stripe of light across the ceiling. I lie stiffly on my side of the bed, staring at that line of light like it might suddenly start offering life advice.
