Member-only story
A Different Woman
A Short Story
“You eat with your hands?” I asked, surprised that Nayla would risk getting her fingers messy in what appeared to be an upscale restaurant.
“You don’t?” she smiled at me, her American accent brimming with confidence.
“No, I mean, I do. My roommate Yousef told me Americans prefer utensils.” I had almost called him my husband.
Nayla threw her right arm over the back of her chair. She finished chewing and stared at me as I sat there, trying to appear as proper and sophisticated as I knew how to.
“What do you prefer?” she asked pointedly.
I examined my plate. The reddish, delicate biryani lingered closely to the spicy murgh masala. If I was sitting in the privacy of my own home, I would have turned my fingers into mixers, combined the delicious contents in front of me, and eaten voraciously.
“I prefer niwalas.”
In response, Nayla spooned more biryani onto her own plate, mixed it with the masala already there, and continued using her fingers to feed herself.
“Me too,” she said, after swallowing her bite of food.
It had been well over an hour, yet I still wasn’t sure if this was a date. My curiosity finally beat out the anxiety of an unwanted answer, and I decided to…
