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Susheela Menon


“Why can’t I come with you?” Wen Ling asked, staring at the waters of a nearby reservoir. It sparkled as if the night sky had emptied all its stars into it. Kumar held her face in his hands. “Next time,” he said. “I haven’t told anyone about us. My mother will freak out if she knows.” “Am I that bad?” she asked. The breeze outside pushed the wooden chimes behind her. They went tock-tock-tock, as if they were laughing at her plight. “She expects me to marry an Indian girl,” Kumar said. “I’ll tell her soon.” He weaved his fingers through her thick curly hair and looked away. Wen Ling spun around and marched into the kitchen. She made two steaming bowls of soup. “Where’s the salt?” she asked, opening and shutting cabinets. Kumar closed the balcony door and walked to where she stood facing him. He put his arms…