Dinner Party
Hans and Neelam arrived late to her parents’ lake house. The silence and stillness of the neighborhood bothered Hans. It was eerie compared to the lively overflow of immigrants and shift laborers that trafficked his apartment complex in the city, two hours east of Lake Michigan.
A few houses had colored Christmas lights lining the gutters above their garages. All the houses had a few inches of snow piled up against their entrances. Fireplaces flickered behind pale curtains and windows angled toward the frozen lake. Hans cautiously held the dashboard with both hands as Neelam drove to her house along the narrowly shoveled part of the driveway. The garage opened from the inside as she turned off her car.
“Are you ready?” she said.
“What if I failed the exam?” Hans said.
Neelam pinched Hans’s cheeks. “Can you forget the exam for a few hours tonight? This is important to me.”
“What do I need to do?”
“Behave and don’t drink too much,” she said.
“Anything else?”
“Eat whatever you’re given and wear what you’re gifted.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Hans, please.”
“I’m not good with your friends.”
“This is my family,” Neelam said.
“That’s worse.”
“Follow my lead. Let’s go.”
Neelam’s mother stood by the door in a black dress that came down to her knees. Her grey cardigan was slightly darker than her white pearl earrings and matching necklace. Her lips were shiny, even without lipstick.
“You’re late,” she said, leaning to hug Neelam without stepping onto the cold concrete of the garage. “Your father is upset.”
“The roads are really bad down state,” Neelam said.
Hans was surprised by Neelam’s response. The roads were clean, and the snow had stopped in the morning. Neelam had driven over the speed limit. They arrived as fast as they could. Hans followed her lead. “It’s that time of the year,” he said.
“And you must be Hans.” Neelam’s mother leaned forward and pushed her cheeks against his. “We’re so happy you’re spending the holidays with us.”
Hans felt her warmth emanating from her smile and the delicacy of her voice. He now better understood the origin of Neelam’s kindness.
Neelam’s mother gently kissed Hans on his forehead as she held his shoulders. “So handsome. I’m Dal.”
“Is that your full name?” Hans said.
“It was Daljeet in our country but it’s been Dal since we got here.”
“Let us in,” Neelam said. “It’s cold.”
The garage door closed behind Hans as he walked into the house. It was warm inside. They were led to the kitchen through the laundry room. The dinner table was set with a green tablecloth and four red napkins. It was lit with Christmas themed candles. Santa Claus, Frosty, reindeers, and few elves were huddled together inside a large wreath in the center of the table. Hans thought these Christmas scenes were reserved for American movies, not real life.
“Where’s Dad?” Neelam asked.
“He went to his study when you didn’t arrive on time,” Dal said. “You know how he is.”
“Dad’s always upset about something.”
“Will you show Hans to his room? Don't take too long up there. Dinner's almost ready.”
Each wooden step squeaked as Hans and Neelam carried their bags upstairs. They were greeted by family photos at the top of the stairwell. The family had attended many football games together and once visited the Eiffel Tower. Neelam had a gap between her two front teeth for most of her childhood. She had been Barbie for Halloween at least twice. Dal looked the same in all the pictures. Her smile appeared colorful even in the black-and-white images.
Neelam’s dad had lost his hair at a young age and often posed with his boat, Lady Liberty. There was no indication that the family came from a foreign land. If Hans didn’t know any better, he would’ve assumed their brown skin was just a tan from summers spent on the lake.
“This is a very nice house,” Hans said. “Are you rich?”
“Stop it,” Neelam said.
“Your mom thinks I’m handsome.”
“So do I,” Neelam said, as she reached behind to tickle Hans’s belly.
Hans suddenly felt a cold hand squeezing his shoulder. The grip loosened when he turned around. Unlike the clean-shaven pictures, Neelam’s dad now had a politely trimmed beard.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Hans said.
“Dad. What’s on your face?” Neelam placed her palms on his cheeks. “You’re so hairy,” she said.
Neelam threw herself into her dad’s arms. He rubbed his cheeks up and down Neelam’s face until she shrieked. “Stop. It scratches.”
Neelam’s dad was taller than Hans. His muscular chest burst out of his red turtleneck sweater. Hans had driven men like him many times in his taxi. They had pristine haircuts, wore dry-cleaned clothes, were always in a hurry, and possessed an air of arrogance that derived from self-importance. Hans imagined that he was a great tipper.
Neelam’s dad shook Hans’s hand forcefully. Hans felt the futility of his own grip.
“Tardiness is a weakness,” he said. “I’m Pam.”
“There’s so much construction on the roads right now,” Neelam said.
“Is Pam short for something?” Hans said.
“It’s just Pam.”
“Dad, we just got here. Let me show Hans to his room.”
“I’ll be downstairs pouring us some wine. You like wine, don’t you?” Pam said.
“I love wine,” Hans said.
“We’ll have a glass or two,” Neelam said.
“Come on, it’s the holidays,” Pam said.
Neelam grabbed Hans’s hand and pulled him toward a room at the end of the hallway.
There was a bookshelf facing the entrance to the bedroom. The top two shelves contained travel books. London, Paris, Rome – all the major cities. The bottom two shelves were filled with framed photos of Lady Liberty over the years. A single bed was centered in the room between two end tables. The lamp on one of the end tables was shaped like an anchor.
“Your family travels a lot,” Hans said, as he skimmed the spines on the bookshelf.
“Don’t drink too much,” Neelam said.
“I have to keep your dad company.”
“You don’t have to keep up with him.”
“I finished my exam. I need to relax.”
“It’s important to me that they like you.”
“They will like me more after a drink or two.”
“Hans, stop it. I know how you can get.”
“Would you like me if I had a beard?” Hans said.
“I’ve never seen you with a beard.”
“What if I had one like your dad’s?”
“My dad looks like a goof. You’re handsome.”
Neelam stepped on his feet to meet him nose to nose. She gently grazed Hans’s face with the back of her fingers. She kissed his cheeks. Her lips were dry and chapped from the cold. He felt warm and grounded in her presence.
Neelam was the best thing that had ever happened to Hans. She encouraged him to leave his taxi shift and study to become a realtor. When Hans struggled with the math, she guided him through it. She often stayed over late and quizzed him on realty concepts. Zoning, commercial versus residential, floor plans, square footage -- she never let him sleep until he had rehearsed them all. She wrote important equations on colored post-it notes and displayed them all over the walls of his otherwise bland apartment. She inhabited his dreams, but this was the first time he had entered her world. Her world was different. It was orderly, clean, and beautiful – just like her. Everything was exactly where it needed to be. The house made sense because she came from it.
“I like you as you are and my parents will too,” Neelam said.
“Even with a beard?”
“No beard. Now get changed for dinner.”
Hans dumped the contents of his bag on the single bed, scattering an assortment of receipts and study notes across the floral covers. His camera landed on the pillow. He put the lighter and pack of cigarettes in his pocket and stretched a thick yellow sweater across the bed. Neelam had bought him the sweater the previous weekend and insisted that he wear it at dinner. He opened both drawers of the end table. They were empty. Hans dropped to his knees and lifted the bed skirt. There was nothing underneath the bed. He wasn’t accustomed to the emptiness of the room. There was more clutter in his own life. It had been worse before Neelam. He still resorted to his old habits of drinking and smoking on the rare days that she didn’t visit. But he strived to be better for her.
Hans cautiously approached the walk-in closet. A light automatically switched on when he entered. Most of the hanging clothes were wrapped in plastic dry-cleaning bags. He flipped through them and stopped at a red sari. Many of the plastic sparkles were intact on the short blouse. The blouse wasn’t long enough to cover the stomach. The waistline of the skirt was petite. The accompanied chunni was patterned and heavier than Hans’s winter coat. He wondered how Neelam would look in the sari. He’d never seen her in Indian clothes. She usually wore jeans with a t-shirt or tank top. Her simplicity was endearing.
There was a knock on the door.
“Are you ready to come down?” Neelam said.
Hans quickly pulled the plastic cover over the sari. “I need more time,” he said.
“Hurry up. I’ll be downstairs.”
Hans heard Neelam skip down the stairs. He closed the closet door and retrieved his cigarettes. He opened the window at the foot of the bed and lit one. Outside, the air was brisk and still. The tree branches were covered in a soft powdery snow. The lake appeared frozen around the edges of the docks leading back to each house.
Hans carefully blew smoke out the window. The smoke aligned with the warm fumes from the furnace below. He hastened the length of his puffs to expedite a head buzz. Like with coffee and alcohol, the faster the better. The cigarette awakened his appetite for wine.
Hans closed the window and breathed into his palms. His breath smelled like cigarette smoke. He rummaged through his belongings until he found his Chanel cologne. It was the first gift Neelam had given him after they started dating.
Hans opened the lid and sprayed the cologne across the yellow sweater in small bursts, concentrating the splashes around the neck and armpits. He wiped the rim of the bottle with his index finger. He brought his wet finger to his lips and rubbed the cologne on his teeth. The cologne burned his mouth. The burning was refreshing. Hans licked the rim of the bottle and swirled the drops in his mouth. The sweater and his breath both smelled better.
Hans heard Neelam’s laughter as he walked downstairs.
“We thought you had fallen asleep up there,” Pam said.
“Not at all, sir. I was changing.”
“What a beautiful sweater,” Dal said, from the kitchen.
Neelam sat at the dinner table with Pam. Her teeth were already stained with wine.
Hans walked straight to the kitchen to help Dal, just as Neelam had instructed him on their drive. The dark marble counters matched the lime green tiled backsplash around the kitchen. A row of cookbooks sat on a shelf beneath an assortment of pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. Neelam’s elementary school drawings were displayed on the stainless-steel fridge.
Hans barely remembered doing work at school in his village in India. He did math on a personal chalkboard one problem at a time. They had one notebook for language arts that had to stay with the teacher, who also served as the village post officer. There was never anything material to bring home.
“Is there anything I can help with?” Hans said.
“My dear, not in this house,” Dal said. “You can help by joining Neelam and Pam in the dining room.”
Hans remained in the kitchen. He made eye contact with Neelam in the next room. She approved of his willingness to help.
“If you insist, you can grate this cheese.” Dal passed him a plate with a grater and block of cheese.
“I would love to,” Hans said.
Neelam laughed loudly in the dining room. Pam clapped every time she laughed. Hans couldn’t hear what they were saying.
“Are they always like this together?” Hans said.
“They get louder as the night goes on,” Dal said. She put another block of cheese in his plate. “How did you meet my daughter?”
Hans wasn’t sure what Neelam had told her parents. “Didn’t she tell you?”
“She’s very private with her relationships.”
“Have there been others?”
“I guess she’s private with you too,” Dal said. “Don’t worry. You’re the first Indian.”
Hans had never asked Neelam about her previous relationships. She never mentioned other boys. Hans believed that not telling was the same as lying.
“She met the last one at a bar on karaoke night. They connected over a Bob Seger song,” Dal said. “How did you two meet?”
Pam and Neelam ran into the kitchen before Hans could answer. They each held a bottle of wine.
“Red or white, Hans?” Pam said.
“Give him red, Dad. A little bit.”
Hans took the glass from Pam and immediately took a gulp. The wine exaggerated the burning in his mouth.
Neelam sloppily scooped a handful of shredded cheese into her mouth. She massaged Hans’s shoulders and whispered “thank you” in his ear.
“Dad, get over here. Bring your glass. Mom, you too,” Neelam said.
The three of them gathered around Hans as he grated the cheese at the counter.
“Lift your glass, young man,” Pam said.
Hans put down the block of cheese and lifted his glass.
“To your first visit to our home,” Pam said. “May you learn to be on time.”
“Get over it, Dad,” Neelam said. “I told you there was an accident on the road.”
The three of them closed their eyes as the glasses approached their lips. Hans took a sip with his eyes open. His gestures were deliberate. He always wanted to do the right thing to make Neelam happy.
“Cheers,” they all said.
Dal sprinkled the shredded cheese on the pasta and they all headed to the dining room. The cheese melted by the time it was Hans’s turn to serve himself. There were bowls of potatoes, steamed vegetables and a thick soup with indistinct chunks of meat. Hans couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a feast. He was accustomed to smaller meals that he finished in his taxi while driving home to his one-bedroom apartment. This food had a shine and glow that awakened his appetite.
“A glass of wine with dinner?” Pam said.
“Dad, don’t do this.”
“It’s up to him.”
“Of course,” Hans said. “This tastes like expensive wine.”
“Last one,” Neelam said.
During dinner, Hans answered questions about his background and upbringing in India.
Pam and Dal said they could relate to his history. They were familiar with the streets, smells, and lack of opportunity. Hans felt akin to them based on complexion and history but not in their mannerisms. Their familiarity felt foreign. Pam and Dal had not been back home in over three decades. They had lived by the lake for too long.
“I have everything I need here,” Pam said. “I have nothing to go back for.”
“Don’t you miss it, sir?”
“Miss what? The overpopulation? The smell of sewage?”
“I miss the food,” Hans said.
“Do you not like what we served tonight?” Dal said. “I can make you something else.”
“That’s not what I meant. This has all been great,” Hans said.
“Look at this house,” Pam said. “Look out the window at the lake. You can’t live like this in India.” He reached across the table and held Neelam’s hand. “Neelam was born here. She’s always going to be here. We want to stay close to her,” he said.
“What about the people?” Hans said. “Your friends and family?”
“You know how they are,” Pam said.
“What do you mean?” Neelam said. “How are they?”
“Let me tell you something about Indian people,” Pam said. “Indian people are corrupt. They took the world’s greatest democracy and smothered it with their selfishness. That’s why we have so much corruption and no progress. It’s in the people’s dirty natures.”
“Things are getting better back home,” Hans said.
“Then why are you here?” Pam said. “Why did you leave your friends and family for the snow?”
“Just because he’s here, doesn’t mean he can’t miss home,” Dal said. “I still miss things about India.”
“Since when?” Pam asked. “What do you miss?”
“I miss my family.”
“What family?” Neelam said. “I didn’t know we had family in India.”
Pam stood up and poured everyone another glass of wine. “They aren’t real family,” he said. “Distant uncles and cousins. They are nobodies.”
“They might not mean anything to you, but I grew up with them. They are my family,” Dal said.
“Why haven’t they ever visited us?” Neelam said.
“Why don’t you ask your father why we’ve never gone back?” Dal said.
“Mom is right. You never took us to India.”
Pam shook his head and took another sip of wine. “Nobody has done less with more than India,” he said. “There’s nothing there for you.”
Dal reached for Pam’s hand. He pulled it back to his lap before she could grab it. “Do you plan on going home to India after your studies?” Dal asked.
“I finished my studies today,” Hans said.
“That’s wonderful!” Pam said. “What did you study? Engineering? Medicine? Law?”
“Real estate,” Neelam said. She proudly turned to Hans and caressed his hand.
“What type of real estate will you practice?” Pam said.
Hans was considering residential or commercial real estate. There was big money in the commercial but the inventory in residential was higher, especially in a luxury lakeside neighborhood like this one. “I’m not sure yet,” Hans said. “I’ve been thinking about this dune on the west side of the state, right on the lake. There’s value there.”
“That’s public land. You can’t sell government property,” Pam said.
“He knows that, Dad. It was an idea.”
“Have you considered government infringement on private property? The government is taking our land. Private property rights are being abolished,” Pam said.
Hans looked at Neelam. He wanted her to answer.
“No politics after 6 p.m., Dad. You know the rules.”
“It’s not politics. It’s an inevitability. We need to be ready for it.”
“Nobody answer him,” Neelam said.
Hans looked up to see Pam staring at him, demanding an answer. Hans ignored his gaze and served himself more potatoes.
Pam took another sip of wine. “This is probably a good time to tell you. Your mom and I are thinking about selling the house,” he said.
“What?” Neelam said, pouring herself another glass of wine. “You can’t do that. I grew up in this house.”
“You don’t come home much, and the house is too big for the two of us,” Dal said. “Plus, we could be closer to you in the city.”
Hans started seeing the house differently. Home buyers loved being near water. He could sell this place in a day, maybe over the asking price if Pam and Dal were patient. If Hans passed his realty exam, this would be the first place he’d put on the market.
“I love this house,” Neelam said. “Dad, tell me you’re lying,”
“The neighbors said we can still use the lake. We will keep our boat.”
Hans thought the linoleum in the kitchen needed to be replaced with hardwood before listing the house. More color in the kitchen could help too.
“I don’t care about your stupid boat,” Neelam said. “We can’t sell this house.”
“You can get great value for it if you sell now,” Hans said. “It’s a seller’s market.”
Neelam slapped Hans on the shoulder. “Whose side are you on?” she said.
“Nothing is official,” Pam said. “We can talk about this later.”
“We’d rather hear more about you two,” Dal said. “How long have you been together now?”
“About four months,” Hans said.
Neelam nodded. “It’s been amazing.”
“How did you meet?” Pam asked.
This time Neelam spoke quickly. She was prepared for the question. “You know how I’ve always loved photography?” She squeezed Hans’s knee under the table. “One day on campus, I saw a stranger taking pictures of the trees. He was so careful and gentle with this approach. I went over and talked to him and here we are.”
“How long have you been doing photography?” Pam asked.
“It’s just a hobby. It’s an old camera. I bought it used,” Hans said.
“We’re going to start learning photography together,” Neelam said.
It was true that Hans had purchased a used camera, but the rest of the story was a lie.
Hans and Neelam had met at Tables, a local bar around the corner from his apartment. It was a Tuesday. Hans sat alone at a table staring up at the lottery numbers on the blurry television.
Neelam walked in with two other girls. The bar was empty, but they still asked to join Hans. The girls wore thick wool coats with silk scarves and high heels. They were dressed much nicer than the typical customers at Tables. Hans became conscious of his English around them. The other girls called him “Hands.” Neelam corrected them and remained curious about Hans while the other girls got bored and started playing pool. Neelam kept buying drinks so Hans kept talking. He told her about his family, about his best friend Kanti, and how he wanted to quit driving a taxi to pursue a career in real estate. Neelam listened long after her friends had left and all the way back to the single mattress on the floor of Hans’s apartment.
Hans wondered what else Neelam lied about. She acted differently around her parents and distanced herself from truth. He was losing her to the customs of the home. He felt like she was ashamed of him.
Pam brought four tiny glasses from the kitchen. He poured the contents of a colorful bottle into each of the glasses. The liquid smelled like lemon and mint.
“This is the bottle of limoncello we got in Italy last summer,” Neelam said. “It’s 100 percent organic.” She downed it like a shot, then immediately placed her glass in front of Pam for a refill.
Hans took a sip. It tasted like sweetened lemon cough syrup. “It’s different,” he said.
“It’s a refined taste,” Pam said. “It’s acquired over time.”
“It’s getting late,” Dal said. “Neelam, will you help me with the dishes?”
“Do I have to?”
“Help your mother,” Pam said. “Earn your wine tonight.”
Neelam slouched her shoulders and stomped her feet as she followed Dal into the kitchen. Pam and Hans remained at the table. Hans thought this was his opportunity to say something clever. Maybe go back to the private property topic or insist that he didn’t want to go back to India either. He wanted to stay here by the lake too. Pam spoke before Hans had a chance.
“Are you going to invite me out for a cigarette?” Pam said.
“Cigarette?” Hans said.
“Oh, come on. I wasn’t born yesterday. The cologne didn’t work.” Pam spoke louder now. His words were more intentional and cutting. The gracious host transformed into the protector of the house. “I don’t believe the photography story. That’s something my daughter saw in a movie.”
“It’s true,” Hans said. “My camera is upstairs.”
“I don’t think you know a damn thing about real estate either,” Pam said.
“I can sell this house.”
“I don’t want you anywhere near my home.”
“Sir.”
“Stop the sir bullshit.” Pam poured himself another shot of limoncello.
“I like your daughter,” Hans said.
“I don’t know where my daughter found you.”
“She’s helped me a lot.”
“The problem is that you’re still one of them. The people back home who are secretly smoking cigarettes in other people’s homes. You are here but your nature is still from there.”
“I’m getting better,” Hans said.
“I know my daughter. She’s with you because she feels sorry for you. She’s naive. She’s in love with the idea of your struggle, not in love with you.”
Pam poured Hans another shot. Hans immediately drank it. The second one stung less.
Hans wanted to fight back but that went against Neelam’s instructions.
“I know your kind. I grew up with your kind. You sell fake electronics on street corners. You were probably driving a taxi before you met my daughter,” Pam said, after taking his shot.
“There’s nothing wrong with driving a taxi,” Hans said.
“We worked too hard to get here, away from people like you, to end up with you again,” Pam said.
Hans reached over the table and took the bottle from Pam. He read the label. “Do you have anything stronger than this?”
Pam stood up and opened the wooden cabinet in the dining room. He brought out a bottle of whiskey. Hans didn’t recognize the label.
“Tonight, you may drink my booze and eat my food. Tomorrow, I want you gone.”
Hans poured himself a healthy amount of whiskey. He had heard enough. “How long did it take to lose your accent?” Hans said.
“I don’t have an accent. I never did.”
“Now it’s my turn to call you a liar.”
Pam stood up at the table. “You’re not good enough for my daughter,” he said.
Hans took two quick sips of the whiskey. It tasted like smoke. “Do you still want the cigarette?” Hans said.
The water turned off in the kitchen. Pam put the bottle of whiskey back in the cabinet.
Dal came back into the dining room. “We’re so glad you came,” she said. “We’ll see you in the morning.” She put her hand on Hans’s head and stroked his hair before heading upstairs.
Pam turned to Hans with his red eyes. “It’s been enlightening,” he said.
“Sir, if you don’t mind, I had one more question,” Hans said. “Why did you leave India?”
“It was a number of things,” Pam said. “But mostly it was to get away from the dishonesty. I left India to get away from people like you.”
Hans raised his empty glass to him. “I hope we never forget where we came from,” he said.
“You be sure to remind us.”
Neelam walked into the dining room and kissed her dad before he headed upstairs.
Hans didn’t want to look at Neelam. He couldn’t trust her. This was all her fault. She had brought him here to embarrass him.
Neelam folded the unused napkins at the dinner table. The serene setting mimicked the many nights they spent together in his unfurnished apartment only with fancy furniture and holiday themed table settings. She seemed completely unaware of the reality of her house. Her sanctuary was Hans's hell.
“How did we do?” Hans said.
“We are perfect together.” She leaned in closer to Hans. “What did you think of my parents?”
“Your mom is very kind.”
“Do you feel loved by them?”
“I don’t think your dad likes me.”
“Are you kidding? He brought out the limoncello. That’s an endorsement.” Neelam suddenly stood up. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Neelam sped up the stairs. Hans followed slowly and stopped in the bathroom. He smiled in front of the bathroom mirror. He wiped his front teeth with his tongue to try to remove the wine stains. He leaned closer to the mirror and noticed a zit forming, right below where one of his bangs touched his forehead. Wine gave him zits, which was why he preferred beer. He pulled his hair off his forehead. His hairline had crept up toward the middle of his scalp. It hurt when Hans scratched the fresh zit. He tried poking it with his fingernail. Then he pinched it between his thumb and index finger. The mixture of puss and blood made his fingers stick together. Maybe Pam was right. His nature was dirty.
Hans washed his bloody finger and thumb in the sink. The value of the property could be increased by switching to a modern cube sink that sat below a mirror. Forget it, Hans thought. This family didn’t need him or his help.
The light to Hans’s room was already on. Neelam was sitting on his bed.
“This is my room,” Hans said.
“I thought this could be our room for a little bit.”
“Where’s all my stuff?”
“I packed it for you.”
Hans took the camera, receipts, wallet, cigarettes and lighter out of the bag and scattered them across the mattress again. He sat beside Neelam. She looped her arm around Hans’s elbow and rested her head on his shoulder. She reeked of her dad’s wine.
“I’m sorry I lied about how we met,” Neelam said, as she stroked the back of his hand.
“You’re ashamed of me,” Hans said.
“I want them to like you.”
Neelam angled her head slightly and started kissing the side of Hans’s unshaven neck.
“Your dad hates liars.”
Neelam stopped kissing him. “What did he say to you?”
“Your mom told me about your other boyfriends,” Hans said.
“They were nobodies,” Neelam said. “I’m with you now.”
She even spoke like her father. Hans stood up and walked to the closet. He felt her stare at him from the bed. He opened the closet door and pulled out the red sari.
“My mom’s wedding sari. How did you find that?” Neelam lifted the plastic bag.
Hans sat on the bed and watched her play with the beads and run her fingers along the patterned embroidery. He pulled out a cigarette and put it to his lips.
“Put it on,” Hans said.
“You can’t smoke in here,” Neelam said.
Hans pointed at the sari and then at Neelam.
“Are you drunk?” she asked.
Hans lit his cigarette.
“When did you drink more?”
“I said, put it on,” Hans said.
“Will you put out the cigarette if I do?”
Hans took an exaggerated puff.
Neelam turned around and opened the closet door.
“Not in there,” he said. “Out here. In front of me.”
Neelam circled the room to open all the windows. She tried waving out the cigarette smoke with her arms. “You always get like this when you drink,” she said.
The refreshing cold breeze invigorated Hans. “Put it on,” he said.
Neelam first removed her pants and then her sweater. She shivered in her bra as she fumbled with the sari. “You’re hurting me again,” Neelam said, as she wiped tears off her cheeks.
Hans took the sari from her. He hovered close to her, intentionally breathing heavier so she could smell the smoke on his breath. He grabbed the corners of the cloth and stretched it out the length of his wingspan. He stood behind Neelam and wrapped the sari around her shoulders like a cape. He held her elbows and spun her around until the sari mummified her.
“I told you not to drink too much,” Neelam said.
Hans stepped back and took one final look at her. Neelam had transformed his life and briefly made him a better person. He never would’ve taken the realtor exam without her. But he couldn’t trust her after tonight. Her lies embarrassed him. Her father’s personal shame was masked in judgment. “Let me know if your parents decide to sell this house,” Hans said. He left her standing in the room in the sari.
Hans picked the Paris travel book off the bookshelf, went downstairs to gather the bottle of smoked whiskey, and exited the house through the back door. The backyard connected to a walking path around the lake. He assessed each property along the path. He liked one specific lot on the north side of the lake. It was a small house with a big yard. At first, he hesitated to see if an alarm sounded or a dog chased him back onto the path before creeping around the house until he reached the dock.
Hans wondered what his life would look like without Neelam. Maybe his old friend Kanti would join him at Tables every Tuesday. They could play Keno together again. Neelam would be fine. Maybe she would be upset for a day or two, but she would quickly forget him among the delicacies of her lake house. Her parents would keep her safe from threats like him.
Hans felt the cold air attacking his lungs as he walked onto the dock. He blamed the unfamiliar limoncello for the burning in his abdomen. The wooden planks creaked but felt stable under his feet. The frozen lake falsely inflated the value of the properties. Swigs of smoked whiskey provided momentary warmth. He had lost his first client and first love on the same day.
The colorful pages of the travel book briefly focused his gaze. He promised to purchase a property in Paris one day.
About the author
Pardeep Toor grew up in Brampton, Ontario and currently lives in Las Cruces, NM. His writing has appeared in the Best Debut Short Stories 2021: The PEN America Dau Prize, Electric Literature, Midwest Review, and is forthcoming in Southern Humanities Review.