(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
Gogol took the hat to his apartment and hid it at the back of his closet ; he would give it to Moushumi on her birth day, of which he'd no idea when it was. That week end at his parents' house he confirmed it ; at night, after his mother and Sonia had gone to bed, he hunted for her in the photo albums that his mother had assembled over the years. Moushumi was there, lined up behind a blazing cake in his parents' dining room. He couldn't get the information about her birth day.
The following weekend she invited him over dinner at her place. She was waiting at the door steps for him, as the buzzer was broken, she'd warned him when they'd made their plans. She wore a sleeveless black dress tied loosely at the back. Her legs were bare, her feet slim, her toenails, exposed at the top of sandals. She led him up to her apartment on the third floor. She held half a cigarette between her fingers, but just before she leaned forward to kiss him on the cheeks she let it drop and crushed it with the toe of her sandal. The apartment smelt strongly of cooking, on the stove, a few large pieces of chicken were browning in a pan full of oil. Gogol handed her a bunch of flowers along with a bottle of wine that he'd also bought. She didn't know where to put the flowers ; the counter tops, were crammed with evidence of the meal she was preparing, onions and mushrooms, flour, a stick of butter rapidly softening in the heat, a glass of wine she was in the process of drinking, plastic bags of grocery she had not time to put away.
She took him into the living room, unwrapped the flowers, "there's a vase up there," she said pointing to the top of a bookcase, "would you mind getting it down."
He removed his coat and cap, draped them over the back of the sofa. He'd dressed with a blue-and-white-striped Italian shirt that Sonia had bought for him at Filene's Basement, a pair of black jeans. She filled the vase with flowers, putting it on the coffee table. The living room had a square dining table in one corner, and a desk and file cabinets set up in another. On the dining table there was a pepper mill, a saltcellar, bright clear-skinned clementines arranged in a bowl. He recognized versions of things he knew from home ; a Kashmiri crewelwork carpet on the floor, Rajasthani silk pillows on the sofa, a cast-iron Natraj on one of the bookcases.
Back in the kitchen she set out some olives and some goat cheese coated with ash. She handed him a corkscrew and asked him to open the bottle he'd bought, to pour himself a glass. She dredged more of the chicken on a plate of flour. The pan was sputtering loudly and had showered the wall behind the stove with oil. He stood there as she referred to a cookbook by Julia Child. He was overwhelmed by the production taking place for his benefit. In spite of the meals they'd already shared, he was nervous about eating with her.
"When would you like to eat ?" she said. "Are you hungry ?"
"Whenever. What are you making ?"
She looked at him doubtfully. "Coq au vin. I haven't made it before. I just found out that you're supposed to cook it twenty-four hours in advance. I'm afraid I'm running a bit behind."
He shrugged. "It already smells great. I'll help you." He rolled up his sleeves. "What can I do ?"
"Let's see," she said, reading. "Oh. Okay.You can take those onions and make X's in the bottom with a knife, and drop them into the pan."
"In with chicken ?"
"No. Shoot." She knelt down and retrieved a pot from one of the lower cupboards. "In here. They need to boil for a minute and then you take them out."
He did as he was told, filling the pan with water and turning on the flame. He found a knife and scored the onions, as he had once been taught to do with Brussels sprouts in the Ratliff's kitchen. He watched her measure wine and tomato paste into the pan containing the chicken. She searched in a cupboard for a stainless-steel spice caddy and threw in a bay leaf.
"Of course, my mother is appalled that I'm not making you Indian food," she said, studying the contents of the pan.
"You told her I'm coming over ?"
"She happened to call today." Then she asked him. "What about you ? Have you been giving your mother updates ?"
"I've not gone out of my way. But probably she suspects something given that it's a Saturday and I'm not at home with her and Sonia."
Moushumi leaned over the pan, watching the contents come to a simmer, prodding the pieces of chicken with a wooden spoon. She glanced back at the recipe. "I think I need to add more liquid," she said, pouring water into the pan, causing her glasses to steam. "I can't see." She laughed, stepping away so that she stood bit closer him. The CD had ended and the apartment was silent apart from the sounds on the stove. She turned to him, still laughing, her eyes still obscured. She held up her hands, messy from cooking, coated with flour and chicken fat. "Would you mind taking these glasses off me ?"
With both the hands he pried the glasses from her face, clasping the frames where they meet her temples. He put them on the counter. And then he leaned over and kissed her. He touched his fingers at her bare arms, cool in spite of the warmth of the kitchen. He pressed her close, a hand at the small of her back, against the knot of her dress, tasting the warm, slightly sour tang of her mouth. They made their way, through the living room, to the bedroom. He saw a box spring and mattress without a frame. He untied the knot at the back of her dress, then swiftly undid the long zipper, leaving a small black pool at her feet. In the light cast from the living room, he glimpsed black mesh underwear and a matching bra. She was curvier than she appeared clothed, her breasts fuller, her hips generously flared. They made love on top of the covers, quickly, efficiently, as if they'd known each other's bodies for years. But when they were finished she switched on the lamp by her bed and they examined each other, quietly discovering moles, marks and ribs.
"Who would have thought ," she said, her voice tired, satisfied. She was smiling, her eyes partly closed.
He looked down at her face. "You're beautiful."
"And you."
"Can you even see me without those glasses ?"
"Only if you stay close," she said.
"Then I 'd better not move."
"Don't."
They peeled back the covers and lied together, sticky and spent, in each other's arms. He began to kiss her again, and she wrapped her legs around him. But the smell of something burning caused them to bolt naked from the bed rushing comically to the kitchen, laughing. The sauce had evaporated and the chicken was irreparably scorched, so much so that the pan itself had to be thrown away. By then they were starving, they lacked the energy either to go out or to prepare another meal.
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