Page 130 of Debugging Love

“You repeat it back to me.”

“Okay.” I fold my hands and repeat his greeting.

When we enter his apartment, he says, “It’s customary to remove our shoes.”

We both slide off our sandals and then head to the kitchen where he unloads the ingredients and pulls out two pots. He starts rice in one, and then he grabs a pressure cooker from the bottom cabinet and places it on the back burner.

Next up are the vegetables. He begins cutting the onion, his fingers extended, perfectly positioned to be sliced. I squeeze my eyes shut and replace the image of his diced fingertips with butterflies sucking nectar from zinnias.

Chance stops chopping. “Intrusive thoughts?”

I open one eye and nod. “Can I show you a safer way?”

He steps back and hands me the knife. I demonstrate proper form. “Fold your fingers under, like this. That way the knife bumps against your knuckles rather than declawing you.”

He rubs his knuckles. “Do you want to finish chopping?”

“Sure.”

As I dice the vegetables, he drops raw peanuts into the rice and then covers the pot with a lid. The vegetables go into the second pot to simmer while the lentils spend several minutes in the pressure cooker until they become liquid.

“I’ll take care of the rest,” he says. “You can go play Call of Duty.”

“No thanks. I think I’ll log in and get more work done.”

“I figured.”

It doesn’t take long for me to get lost in code. As I type away, the spicy aroma from the kitchen intensifies, making me feel more and more at home.

I’m knee-deep in unit testing when Chance comes up beside me. “No coding allowed while we’re eating.”

I do a double take. Chance changed into a collarless, long-sleeved ivory shirt that ends mid-thigh. Silver, geometrically patterned embroidery adorns the front panels, which are buttoned to his waist, the uppermost button left undone. Underneath he’s wearing loose pants of the same fabric. His feet are bare.

“I changed,” he says after I’ve stared for far too long.

“Um. Wow. You look good in that color.”

“Santa’s Beard?”

“Yeah.”

He fingers the thin sleeve. “My dadi made me pack this. I told her I’d never have a reason to wear it.”

I grin at him. “She was wrong.”

He offers his hand. I grab it and let him pull me to my feet. The momentum brings us face-to-face. He reaches behind my neck, threads his fingers through my hair, leans in for a kiss. His lips are familiar, but our connection is charged, each kiss more intense than the last.

With his face inches away, he looks at me and smiles. “The food is ready.”

I let him plate up our dishes and bring them to the table. He brings two bowls full of Bisi Bele Bhath, two plates stacked with rotis, and spoons.

“No traditional Indian drink?” I ask.

“Nope. I can offer you water, Coke Zero, or water.”

“I’ll take water,” I say, not wanting to mix unfamiliar spices with cola flavoring.

After bringing me my drink, he sits across from me, and we dig in.

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