After searching for a while, I find a can of garbanzo beans and a bag of spinach in the freezer. I dump both into a pot and whip up the saddest chana saag the world has ever seen. I made the fatal mistake of trying it, thinking it was tasteless, and then adding too much masala. Now it’s not just thin and watery, but also so laden with spices I can feel the grit of them between my teeth.
Fortunately, I made rice to go with it, so there’ll be at least one thing edible on the table.
To his credit, Nikhil doesn’t say anything when he takes his first bite of the meal, though he follows it with a long sip of water.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, deciding to put him out of his misery. “I know it’s bad. You don’t have to eat it.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not…it’s notthatbad.” He swallows another forkful. “At least, it’s not any worse than that time I accidentally made chili with cinnamon instead of cumin.” He grins. “Any chance that’s what happened here?”
I laugh. “It’s definitely possible.”
We stick to mostly eating the rice, and plucking a few pieces of chana out of the bowl. The gravy and the spinach seem to have soaked up my poor attempts at seasoning, but the chana itself isn’t too bad, the flavor somewhat diluted when it’s drowned by rice.
“I can take you to the airport tomorrow,” Nikhil says.
“Oh. You don’t have to—”
“I’m going to be driving that direction tomorrow anyway.” His foot taps absently underneath the table. “I want to check on theproperty. I’ve been looking up reports from the area, but it seems mixed. Some houses got hit badly, while others scraped by. Not unlike our street, I guess.”
Ourstreet. Nikhil said that so easily. He doesn’t even seem to notice it slipped. But that “our” causes a sharp pinch beneath my sternum. I rub the spot, trying to erase the sensation.
“If you’re sure you don’t mind, that would be great then. Thank you,” I say.
“Yeah, of course.”
We continue eating in silence for a couple minutes, and then Nikhil casually says, “Actually, we could stop by the property first if you want. On the way to the airport? I mean, I know we’d talked about you maybe seeing it, but that was when you were going to help with the grant stuff—”
“I’ll still help with the grant applications, Nikhil. I’d be happy to do that.”
“Okay. No pressure, though. I know you’re busy. And I’m not sure if we even should go there. We’d have to leave a little early so we’d have time and the place is nowhere close to being done so I can just see it after I drop you off if you prefer that.”
“I don’t mind,” I tell him. “I want to see it.”
He smiles then, his teeth flashing. It’s beautiful, and wonderful, and horrible, all at the same time.
“Have you decided on a name for the inn?” I ask. “What did they call the one in the show? It was, umm, the…”
“The Dragonfly Inn.”
“Right. Hmm. Kind of generic, wasn’t it? I think you can do better than that.”
Humor shines in his eyes. “Sounds like you’ve got lots of opinions about this.”
“I’ve got opinions about everything. You know me.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, “I do.” He shakes his head. “So, let’s hear it then. What names do you think would work better?”
I offer up some suggestions, but it turns out naming an inn is a lot harder than I’d thought.
“It’s overlooking the water, right?” I say. “Maybe something about that?”
“And that doesn’t sound too generic to you?”
I roll my eyes, and he lets out a snort of amusement.
We keep throwing out names, and our suggestions only grow more and more ridiculous as each of us tries to make the other person laugh. When I fall asleep later that night, I swear I can still hear his laughter echoing in my mind, and I’m struck by a strange thought.
I wish I’d recorded it. I wish I’d recorded that sound. Because I’m not sure if I’ll ever hear it again.
