Nights Like This by Divya Sood

That had been my life and perhaps, I should say, my luck. I had never found anything in anyone that made me feel as if there was such uniqueness in her soul that I needed to be with her. Until now…and I didn’t even know her name.
    I returned to my place on the fountain rim where I could sit and face Poet’s Walk.
    I looked to where I heard a cry. A woman in a sari was holding an infant, stroking his back, whispering in his ear. The father stood a few steps away, his eyes darting around the park, wondering who was looking. He wore a V-neck shirt and shorts, his thin ankles exposed in his blue flip-flops. I watched his unease and wished he could see me watching him.
    I turned my gaze back to the woman who had managed to soothe her son to sleep. I watched her sari billow in the slight breeze and remembered for an instant burying my head in my mother’s lap, crying that I did not want to go to New York. I remembered the scent of her Pond’s powder and the feel of her rough palm across my forehead. I had been 16 then but somehow, I don’t think anyone’s ever too old to cry in the lap of a beautiful woman.
    I turned away from the sleeping infant and looked towards Poet’s Walk as if my squatting stranger would run down the path towards me, a hand on her shoulder to keep the fabric of a sari from flying off her body. She wouldn’t wear a sari, I reminded myself. Although Anjali had worn saris for me many times. There wasn’t much Anjali hadn’t done for me.
    I remembered the last time Anjali had worn a sari for me it was sheer blue with golden embroidery on the border. I remembered how she had chosen to take a shawl rather than her coat because she said it looked ridiculous to wear a winter coat over a sari.
    â€œI’ll look like an Aunty if I do that,” she had said.
    â€œYou’ll fucking freeze if you don’t. And I’m not going to take care of you when you get sick.”
    It was cold and snow was imminent, the skies a light grey and the horizon dark. We had taken a cab to The Pierre and all the while Anjali was shivering with cold.
    â€œWhy the fuck did you wear a sari?” I asked her more than once.
    She said nothing. She didn’t even answer me.
    It was only when we were seated, a bottle of wine almost half gone that she took my hands in hers and said, “Happy Anniversary?”
    I think I had just looked confused.
    â€œToday’s the 23rd, Jess. We met for the first time today during that stupid snowball fight. After that horrible party. Do you remember?”
    â€œI remember. I fell on my ass that night and it hurt like hell.”
    â€œAnd I gave you my hand to help you up. And while everyone else was throwing snowballs we just stared at each other.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I said as I remembered the first time Anjali had taken my hand, her lines of fate meeting mine, neither of us realizing that our lives were mixing, mingling, and becoming one for much longer than that night, with more complication than a simple touching of skin.
    â€œWell that’s why I wore a blue sari, Jess. Because you love women in saris. And you love blue.”
    I had looked into her eyes and they were so sincere I was ashamed.
    â€œAnjali, if I was rude to you about the sari, I’m sorry. You look beautiful.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” she said. “You can make it up to me when we get home.”
    I didn’t make anything up to her that night. When we got home, I couldn’t stop vomiting and I had a fever. I didn’t know if I had food poisoning or if I was just sick.
    Anjali stayed in a chair by the bed all night with cold compresses and ginger tea. I woke and slept in spurts until dawn broke. And Anjali was there, seated next to me the entire night. Anjali…
    I turned my thoughts to jasmine and thumb rings. I wondered if she had tattoos. I would sit for hours, I decided. I would…I stopped. What the