“The gossip my end is I’m getting broke and old.”
“How much did you lose?” she asks.
“Enough,” he says, then corrects himself. “No, seriously speaking, it’s all right.”
“You at least smell like you had a good night.”
He heads toward the bar. “You want a nightcap?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Can I ask you something,” he says, his drunkenness loosening his tongue. “Were you an alcoholic?”
She gives a calm, placid smile. “Where did that come from?”
“It’s a reasonable question.”
“If I were, I’d still be one.”
“Drug addict?”
“Nope.”
“What then?” He pours a snifter of Cognac, inhales it, walks to the bedroom.
“A recovering coward,” she says.
* * *
—
Maria wakes to see Sunny reclined in a vintage leather armchair, robe open, smoking, staring into space.
“Teresa,” she says, and rolls over to shake Teresa awake.
* * *
—
Maria’s from Mexico City, she’s been running a restaurant in Delhi for a year now. Teresa’s from Madrid, she’s been backpacking in the south for three months. When she flew into Delhi three nights ago, she got fleeced by the taxi, dropped off in a desolate spot, then creepy guys followed her to her Paharganj hotel. People had warned her about the city, how hard it was. She went to a travel agent the next morning and booked a bus to Jaipur. Then she went to an internet café and looked for anything that looked like home. A Mexican restaurant in South Ex was good enough. She spent the day at Lodhi Gardens, Khan Market, and Humayun’s Tomb, then went out for dinner at seven. When she walked in, Teresa was surprised to see the modern design and the young Mexican woman running the place. This wasn’t the Delhi she expected at all. Since it was early, and the place was still empty, Maria made a beeline for her. Maria’s authority and the relief of the shared language made Teresa’s exhaustion and loneliness melt away. Maria made sure Teresa got the best of everything, gorditas, mutton cabeza tacos, tamales oaxaquen?s. Whenever there was a lull in service, she sat at Teresa’s table, drinking a beer. They got talking about India; already jaded by Delhi, Maria was glad to hear Teresa’s complaints, and knowing she couldn’t be understood by the rich English-speaking Indian clientele, unloaded her grievances as well. Purged, they moved on to what they loved about the land. They were still talking when the other customers faded away. Maria brought out a bottle of mezcal. “I have to go to Jaipur tomorrow!” Teresa exclaimed. Maria declared it impossible. “You’re staying with me,” she said, “at least for tonight.” Teresa just smiled and said OK.
* * *
—
In the car back to Maria’s place, Teresa thought she was picking up a vibe.
“I have someone,” she said, feeling foolish as soon as the words came out of her mouth.
Maria looked at her quizzically. “Someone?”
“At home.”
“Boy or girl?”
“A boy.”
Maria nodded and smiled but said nothing more.
Teresa passed out on the couch.
In the morning Maria brought her coffee, said she’d send Teresa with one of her drivers to the hotel, pick up her things. “Crash with me a few nights,” she said, “no strings. Only one thing: I have to go to my financer’s wedding. I’ll need a friend.”
“An Indian wedding!” Teresa cried. “I went to one in Kottayam!”
* * *
—
Maria blinks through her comedown haze and shakes Teresa awake.
—Oye.
Teresa opens her eyes. Looks at Maria with unvarnished disgust.
She gets out of bed, starts to dress.
—Ya me voy.
—?A donde?
—A la recamara.
—Yo también.
Teresa doesn’t look at her.
—Quiero estar sola.
* * *
—
Sunny stares at Maria as Teresa slips away.
“What did she say?”
Maria climbs off the bed, covering her breasts, gathering her own clothes.
“She wants to be alone.”
“Why?”
“So do I.”
“Why?”
“Why did you do this?”
“You did it yourself.”
She turns on him.
“It’s your wedding day!”
“So what?”
“I didn’t want this.”
“Didn’t look like it from where I was standing.”