The kitchen smells of burnt cumin and over-steeped tea, the ceiling fan wobbling on its lowest setting, pushing hot air from one corner to another without cooling anything. Sweat clings to Payal's skin, soaking through the faded green cotton of her sari where it clings to the curve of her waist. Her blouse — the tight blue one she changed into after the green one became too damp — strains against her breasts, the fabric pulled taut across the full swell of them, dark skin visible in the deep cleavage where the cloth gaps. She stands barefoot on the cool stone floor, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles white, ears burning red.

Behind her, Dhananjay's broad shadow falls across the counter. He is close enough that the scent of tea and talcum powder on his skin mixes with the heat rising from her body. His reading glasses sit low on his nose, and his jaw moves deliberately, as though chewing through some decision. His wide hands hang at his sides.