“Sometimes, when you knead the pasty white dough, you wonder if she is paler, and if she too was soft in all the right places. When the sharp smell of coriander and cumin tickles your nose, you wonder if their necks and wrists smell of vanilla and flowers. He would know, you think, as you dig your knuckles deep into the dough, over and over again.”

“Water rolls down your body, tracing your ribs, finding your hip bone and falling below just as his fingers did not even an hour ago. Each droplet on a path south, and you shiver, wrapped in steam.”