HARIT DID NOT HAVE RANJANA’S luck: he had to see Teddy at the store, so he had to face Teddy’s entreaties to hang out in person. Harit’s response was to propose more trips to TGI Friday’s.
He and Teddy were sitting at their usual table and having martinis. Harit had come around on martinis; they were like alcoholic bombs, targeted and potent. Accompanying the drinks was a large plate of mozzarella sticks, which Harit found irresistible. The tang of the cheese resembled the taste of really firm paneer, and the crunch of the breading felt like an achievement when your teeth clamped down. Harit had taken to asking for crushed red pepper to mix into his side of marinara sauce. Teddy recoiled from such a taste and said that his head would pop off and land in the kitchen’s deep fryer if he ate it. Harit imagined the sight of Teddy’s head dipped in batter. He chuckled into his glass.
They had gotten down to one stick, and Harit reached for it, feeling no bit of remorse whatsoever. If Teddy wanted more, he could order more, and he would likely eat all of them. But as Harit was lifting the stick off the plate, Teddy slapped his hand playfully and said, “Naughty girl!” Teddy was giggling, an act that made him seem even older. Harit offered a smile back, though he felt strange about the moment in a way that he couldn’t quite place.
They felt it before they heard it; you can feel spite.
“Look at these fucking fags.”
A trio of college-aged guys was standing near the table, their faces cracked in two—grin on the bottom, glare on the top. All three young men wore heavy coats and baseball caps, and a gold chain gleamed from the neck of the one on the right. Harit had endured his share of racist experiences, but he understood in this instant how different a gay comment felt. It felt alive, like he could pull the slur off of him and feel it pulsing in his hands.
Both Teddy and Harit were silent. Then, to Harit’s surprise, Teddy spoke softly, “Please leave us alone, guys,” and leaned forward to take another sip of his martini. Harit almost started to stop him, because he could see, in this action, Teddy’s effeminacy at its full impact, the pursed lips, the grand lift of his arm as the glass neared his mouth.
“Oh, we should probably leave you fags alone so you can drink your faggoty martinis,” the one on the left said. His voice was deeper, though goofier.
Teddy set his drink down, betraying his efforts at composure by spilling a bit. To Harit, he said, “Don’t listen to them, hon—” and then caught himself. Here, in this riveting, crushing moment, he finally seemed to truly hear the tone that he affected when addressing Harit.
“Don’t listen to them, what, faggot?” the one on the left coughed out, coming closer to the table. The three were all laughing now. It was the funniest bloody thing that they’d ever heard in their lives.
Just then, Harit and Teddy’s butch waiter walked past the table, and one look from him sucked out some of the menace in the air. A guy like him could tell when guys were trying to act like him.
“Everything fine here, fellas?” he said. Harit and Teddy had recently discovered that his name was Brian. Harit held on to that fact now as if it were some precious gem.
“Just enjoying this little show,” the middle one said, pointing unabashedly at the table.
Brian sighed and said, “OK, come on, now, guys. Let’s move it along.”
“Come on,” the one on the left said. “We’re just having a little faggoty fun.”
“Heyyy,” Brian said, like they’d just spilled wine on his shirt. “OK, let’s not do that, guys.”
All three laughed and shrugged. “Whatever,” the middle one said. “Whatever. Let’s go. No one wants to be at homo hour.” Brian was gesturing around them to the manager, who was acknowledging the issue from across the room.
They steered the men out, and both Teddy and Harit could see the group crossing the mall floor outside. The man with the chain turned around. Harit and Teddy ducked down quickly, as if someone were about to shoot a gun. Harit looked over at Teddy, crouched amidst the mess of dirt and gum on the ground.
They lifted themselves up. Teddy started laughing nervously. Harit stared into his martini glass. He felt a combination of drunk and ashamed, then realized that the two things often went hand in hand.
“I’m so sorry—” Teddy said, leaving a breath where a “honey” would’ve once lived. “It’s … it’s nothing. That sort of stuff happens all the time. They’re just stupid kids.”
“What if they’re waiting for us outside?” Harit asked. He wanted to be in bed.
“They won’t. They won’t. They’re stupid kids. They have a frat party to go to or something.” Teddy started giggling again. It was awful.
They asked for their check. “Thank you,” Teddy said to Brian, who said back quickly, “Don’t worry about it. Sorry for that, guys.” Brian: their unlikely savior.
As they left, Harit felt a desire to cling to Teddy and a will to never see him again. In the parking lot, he could feel both of them trying not to look around. A burst of laughter came from somewhere, and they both cringed. They got into Teddy’s car and took off. Neither spoke, and when they got to his house, Harit left the car wordlessly, running to the back door.
He dreamed that night of the guy on the right, who had never said a word at the restaurant but who, in the dream, seemed full of them. Yet Harit couldn’t make out his words, only a sensation of them. The sensation crept its fingers into his chest and opened it slowly; a sliver of pink smoke curled up from it. It took Harit what seemed like hours to register that this thread of smoke was some version of his heart, which was no longer solid but which could blow away if the air caught it. He understood that he had been foolish about sex, or what he thought about sex. Those men, despite their boorishness, had hit upon some fundamental element of his urges. He was a middle-aged man who put on woman’s clothes (for something necessary, but he still did it), and who was he to deny the harsh name-calling of those men when he had never explored another person’s body—woman or man—to see what would give him comfort? The real danger of an insult, even in sleep, was that it put into slurs what you put into poetry in order to protect yourself.
THE CALLS BEGAN INNOCENTLY ENOUGH. Ranjana would be coming in the door from work, hear the cordless phone warbling in the kitchen, and rush to pick it up. “Hello?” she would say, and then there would be a few short puffs—not frenzied or sexual, thank God, but still serious—and then a quick hang-up. Immediately, she thought of Achyut, his pretty face twisting into anxiety under its scruff. At one point, a call came in the night while she and Mohan were both asleep. As she awoke, she heard Mohan grumbling. He slammed the phone back into its position beside their bed.