“Oh, Anil. You were correct,” Mr. Chopra said, laughing. “Johnny’s poetry does sound like something you’ve heard before! That good-for-nothing son of mine has plagiarized the whole poem. Some fellow named William Yeats has written this. I should have known. Johnny is not intelligent enough to write so beautifully about a subject so dirty. It takes talent to make pigeons sound beautiful and romantic and Johnny has no talent. Thank God we can take care of him.”
Mr. Jha had no response. It was his own fault. He should never have said anything about Johnny’s poetry reminding him of something. He should have just quietly worked hard to help get Johnny a meeting with the people at Penguin.
“You fool,” Elizabeth said as she walked in the door. “Why would you buy weed in a public parking lot in the middle of the day? You should have just waited until I could get you some. I haven’t heard from you in nearly two months, and then this is the text I get?”
Rupak was putting his books into a large brown box.
“Do you want any of this stuff? My TV, my microwave? Speakers, the toaster—you can take whatever you want from here.”
“I might take your juicer,” Elizabeth said. She walked around his living room, which was full of boxes, piles of books and clothes, and open suitcases with things spilling out. She sat down on the floor near the window.
“You’re really leaving.”
Rupak placed a pile of management textbooks into a box and nodded.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?” he said. “Or a beer or something?”
“Are you okay?” Elizabeth asked.
“I think I also have half a bottle of wine.”
“Sure, I’ll have a glass of wine,” Elizabeth said.
Rupak went to the fridge and split the remaining wine between two coffee cups. He used to own two wineglasses but he had taken those, along with two other boxes of kitchenware, to the Goodwill shop the previous day. When he came back to the living room, Elizabeth was standing up near his almost-empty shelf and looking at the framed picture of him in his school uniform. He handed her the cup of wine.
“We used to be poor,” Rupak said. “Well, not poor but not rich. That picture is of me in my uniform from my first day of school. My father was so excited that I was going to go to a rich kids’ school.”
He sat down on the floor across the room from her and leaned against the wall.
“I had the opposite. We used to be rich. Actually rich-rich,” Elizabeth said. “Can I have this picture?”
“You were?”
“Well, not like we’re poor now. But yeah, my father made some bad investments, I guess. I don’t really know details. I just know that we changed neighborhoods and homes when I was in the seventh grade and nobody was really allowed to talk about it,” Elizabeth said.
“I never knew that about you.”
“I think there’s a lot we didn’t know about each other. I certainly didn’t know you looked so handsome in your uniform. Anyway, I don’t talk about it because I know how spoiled it sounds—it’s not like we were ever homeless. It took some adjusting but I don’t feel scarred, you know. The only thing that stands out in my mind is when I overheard my parents fighting one night about whether to keep giving ten percent of their income to the church. My father was really adamant about it, but my mother thought we could use that money more. I could hear the whole fight—it started there and then it just spiraled. My father eventually stormed out and said he was going to spend the night in his office.”
“Who won? Did they keep giving money?” Rupak asked.
“Yes. My father won. He always does.”
“Mine tends to too,” Rupak said.
They both fell silent for a while. Rupak looked around his apartment. He was going to miss it. He was going to miss Ithaca, he was going to miss America, and he was going to miss Elizabeth. He had just assumed he was going to have a life here, but now it seemed impossible. He had an Indian passport, which meant the only way he could live here was either by studying or getting a job that would sponsor his visa, and he knew that the latter was next to impossible these days anyway, and would be completely impossible without a proper degree. Or he could get married to an American.
“Why didn’t you ever tell them about me?” Elizabeth broke the silence.
Rupak leaned his head back against the wall.
“Because I’m an idiot,” Rupak said, and got up and went to the kitchen. He opened the fridge. There was a single Corona. On top of the fridge was a bottle of Maker’s Mark that was not yet empty. He took both and went back to the living room and sat down next to Elizabeth on the floor. He opened the Corona and placed it on the floor in between them and poured Maker’s Mark into both of their empty cups.
“Because I was a fucking idiot, Elizabeth. And I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I just hope I hurt myself more than I hurt you,” Rupak said.
Elizabeth took a sip.
“That’s an easy way to avoid feeling bad, isn’t it?” Elizabeth said. “I have to say it helps, though. I don’t feel angry toward you anymore. I guess I’m being petty too.”
“I’m going to try to find a way back,” Rupak said. “Don’t be surprised if I show up on your doorstep in Florida to fight to get you back, okay?”
“That’s a nice sentiment, Rupak, but I wouldn’t bother. I’m not saying that angrily, I promise. I just—I’m not one for dramatic gestures.”
Elizabeth moved the bottle of beer and leaned her weight against his. He pressed his face to the top of her head. He wondered why he had never bothered asking her much about her life before. He had been so swept up in the idea of her because of what she looked like that he hadn’t bothered with any of the details—he just filled in the gaps himself and created the perfect American sitcom character. In the perfect American sitcom, they would sleep together tonight. And when he woke up in the morning, she would be gone, the sun streaming down on the pillow she had used. And perhaps there would be a note left on his table. But there was none of that.
They kissed. They kissed for about an hour, but all their clothes stayed on. He tried once to reach under her shirt, but she pulled back and he let it be. Just kissing her was nice; he hadn’t realized that before. And he didn’t have the energy to try anything more tonight.
“Why don’t we meet out somewhere for dinner?” Mrs. Ray said. She was standing in front of her bathroom mirror combing her hair and smiling to herself. She put the comb down on the edge of the sink and scraped at a small stain of dried toothpaste on the mirror with her thumbnail.
“We’ve already been all over Delhi. It’ll be nicer to eat at home. I want to see where you live,” Upen said. “I’ll come around eight. You don’t have to cook. I can bring food, or we can order in?”
“No, of course not,” Mrs. Ray said. He was right—since their day at Dilli Haat, they had been out for two more dinners, one midafternoon session of drinks in Hauz Khas Village, and a bharatanatyam dance performance. Each time he had asked to come over, and each time she had come up with an excuse not to let him. “I’d love to cook for you. I just—well, I haven’t entertained in a while.”
“I’m sure you make a wonderful host,” Upen said. “Tell me what I can bring, and I’ll come at eight.”