“He’s married,” Meera declares into the phone. I shift on the couch and flatly say, “He is a lot of things, but married is NOT one of the. I saw every inch of his house, including the bedroom,” I retort and pop a sour cream and onion Ruffles potato chip into my mouth. “Oh really” she sneers into the phone. I groan. “He wanted my opinion about something," I reply. "I'll be he did!" Meera says. I ignore her and say, “Now that I think about it, Town and Country had no photos of anyone, not even himself, in his house.” “Maybe it’s not his house,” Meera suggests. “It’s his house!” I reply and laugh.
“Hhhmm,” Meera reflects. “How does a man who dated the life out of you suddenly go silent?” “Dunno,” I reply. “Honey,” Meera says and her voice fades. “Why do you think Town and Country won’t call her back?” I hear muffled voices and Rohit gets on the phone. “Where are you meeting these people?” he demands. “Lord! I am the dismal-ist desi dater known to God or man!” I sigh. “He’s gay,” Rohit gives his standard response and hands the phone back to Meera. “He’s married,” Meera insists again. “He’s Indian. He wouldn’t risk his marriage or more importantly, losing half his stuff over a meaningless, sexless tryst with a prudish desi girl.” “Good point...You’re sure you didn’t sleep with him?” Meera asks. “Really? After EVERYTHING I have been through and all the stupid things I do, you think I would withhold THAT from you?” “Okay,” Meera says.
For the next six days I force myself back into a routine. My brother reprimanded my father for the way he mishandled my “dismissal” last week. So I return to editing proposals and contracts. I see an Off-off-Broadway play. I make a date with Vijay (who incorrectly pronounces his own name as Vee-Jay). When the weekend roles around I get a stylish haircut the same day the first Manhattan crane drops to the ground on the East Side in the 50s. I lunch with Jack and Jane, then brunch in the Flatiron with Ainsley and Siobhan.
When Sunday evening arrives, I feel sad that the weekend and my free time are over. It morphs into the blues, as I realize another five days of the daily, boring, unrewarding grind are coming up. And despite filling my time and space with EVERYTHING and EVERYONE I cannot get over how insignificant I am. Men, or at least the ones I seem to date, are like faucets. When they are into me, it’s like hot water gushing and rushing uncontrollably. Then suddenly, without warning or explanation, a clog appears and the water dams up. It’s like I was never there. And for me, because I feel with every inch and ounce of my being, the current of silent rejection pulls me under and drowns my like nothing else could.