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Dimple thought of Insomnia Con, of Jenny Lindt, of SFSU, of Stanford. Of all the things she’d jeopardize if she called Ritu auntie a backward, antifeminist blight on democratic society.
It was like watching the sun rise, Dimple thought, or the streetlights come on at dusk. Gradual, powerful, brilliant, in a way.
And then she smiled a smile so dazzling, Rishi tripped over his own feet.
The smell of sandalwood and cloves enveloped them like a soft, unfurling curtain.
His eyes reminded her of old apothecary bottles, deep brown, when the sunlight hit them and turned them almost amber. Dimple loved vintage things. She followed a bunch of vintage photography accounts on Instagram, and old apothecary bottles were a favorite subject. So it was a kind of magic, being here in this antiques store with a boy whose eyes were just the right shade of honey.
the sun had streaked the fog a molten pink and gold. Karl wafted lazily, toying with their hair and whispering wetly in their ears.
Rishi was a naturally good friend, she could tell, the kind of guy who thought your every fight was his as well.
He didn’t know Dimple very well, obviously, and yet tonight she was just … off, a faded print of her former vibrant self. It was like someone had left a photograph out in the sun too long.
Utterly sure of himself in a really comfortable way. There was something about people who were that secure; they made you feel better about yourself, like they accepted you for everything you were, imperfections and all.
Rishi had a gift. A serious gift that he didn’t seem to like to share with people. Dimple knew why now … it was so intimate. He became someone else, stripped down, unself-conscious, unaware. She’d seen what his soul was made of. And she’d liked it.
Rishi kissed her with purpose, with meaning, like he believed this was exactly where they were supposed to be in this moment. He kissed her till she believed it too.
He grinned, his heart soaked in happy.
