He’s looking for me.
I walk casually toward the fruit stand and stop a pace or two from him. I pick up a green mango with a hint of blush on its cheek and hold it under my nose. The sweet fragrance stands in sharp relief against the smell of meat, incense and sweat that permeates the rest of the market. I press my thumb against the fruit and it yields slightly. That’s how you know something is ready to be devoured, when it gives just a little under pressure. It’s the same with people.
I can feel the boy staring at me, but I keep my face toward the fruit bin and watch him from the corner of my eye. I have to be sure. Finally I glance up and our eyes lock.
“Do you have something for me?” he asks.
I open my mouth to answer, when a small girl presses against his leg. Her clothes are little more than rags and her face is pinched with hunger. She holds out her grime-covered hands cupped in front of her. “Please?” she says in a scratchy voice. He looks down at her like she’s something he’s just scraped from the bottom of his shoe.
“Go away,” he says. The knot in my stomach loosens and I am flooded with relief. I don’t have to feel guilty for walking away. I turn my attention to the little girl, who has backed off, her expression a mixture of fear and disappointment.
“Come, janu,” I tell her. She takes a step toward me, and I drop three fat coins into her palm along with a mango I have plucked from the top of the heap. Her face lights up in a smile.
I turn back toward the boy, his lip still curled in disgust. “I do have something for you,” I tell him. And then I do what I came for.
I kiss him.
He tenses up at first—they always do—but then he relaxes into me, his lips soft and welcoming. Ripe. And that’s when I put my hands on his shoulders and push him away. It was a brief kiss, but a fatal one. His eyes are wide and he puts two fingers to his mouth as if he’s not sure what just happened.
“Did you have something for me?” he asks again.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t.”
His face twists in confusion and his gaze sweeps across the market. “Oh,” he says. “I guess you’re not who I thought you were.”
No, I’m not. I’m not who he thought I was at all.
I turn and walk away, and though it takes all the self-restraint I have, I don’t look back.
It won’t happen right away. The poison will take some time to absorb into his skin where my lips brushed against his, to find its way into his bloodstream. To destroy him.
In one hour, his skin will heat. I can picture him taking off his black jacket, tugging at his yellow shirt, fanning himself with a newspaper. In two hours his nose will begin to run and his stomach will roil. In three hours his chest will tighten, his pupils will constrict, he will feel like he is being squeezed in the jaws of a giant snake. He won’t be entirely wrong. In four hours he will have lost control of most of his bodily functions. He will drool. He will soil himself. He will lose his dignity. In five hours he will stop breathing.
I hope whatever he did to deserve this fate was truly horrible. Because in six hours my guilt will be almost too much to bear.
When I return to the flat, I knock on the door—three sharp raps, which means I am safe and alone. Two knocks means I might have been followed. Four tells Gita she should open the door with a weapon in her hand.
The door swings wide and Gita’s face is drawn, worried.
“Marinda,” she says with a catch in her voice, “you’re late.” She’s holding a dish towel that her hands have shaped into a rope. The gray at her temples seems more pronounced tonight, as if she has aged in the waiting.
“Am I?” I ask, though I know it’s true. The walk back always feels heavy, like a chore.
I move past her and step inside. Our flat is small, just one room with beds on one side and something that passes for a kitchen on the other. A tiny bathroom is tucked in the corner with only a faded yellow curtain for a door. It isn’t grand, but at least I don’t have to live at the home with Gopal and the other girls.
Mani is curled up on one of the beds, already asleep, though the sun isn’t fully set. His small body is curved around Smudge, who lifts her head to look at me, licks a paw and then presses her face against Mani’s chest.
“How long has he been out?” I sit on the side of the bed and smooth the hair from Mani’s forehead. His face is warm and the bitter-smelling vapors of his breathing treatments cling to his clothing.
“Not long,” Gita says. She stops tormenting the dish towel, uncurls it and smooths it with her palms. “He had more energy today.” I can hear the effort in her voice and I know she’s stretching the truth. He is less exhausted some days than others, but he never has energy.