When she had put everything away she sat on the bed. She leaned toward him, close enough to see some white powder from the rice cakes stuck to the corners of his mouth, and picked up the almanac. As she turned the pages she imagined the quarrels Rohin had overheard in his house in Montreal. "Is she pretty?" his mother would have asked his father, wearing the same bathrobe she'd worn for weeks, her own pretty face turning spiteful. "Is she sexy?" His father would deny it at first, try to change the subject. "Tell me," Rohin's mother would shriek, "tell me if she's sexy." In the end his father would admit that she was, and his mother would cry and cry, in a bed surrounded by a tangle of clothes, her eyes puffing up like bullfrogs. "How could you," she'd ask sobbing, "how could you love a woman you don't even know?"
As Miranda imagined the scene she began to cry a little herself. In the Mapparium that day, all the countries had seemed close enough to touch, and Dev's voice had bounced wildly off the glass. From across the bridge, thirty feet away, his words had reached her ears, so near and full of warmth that they'd drifted for days under her skin. Miranda cried harder, unable to stop. But Rohin still slept. She guessed that he was used to it now, to the sound of a woman crying.
On Sunday, Dev called to tell Miranda he was on his way. "I'm almost ready. I'll be there at two."
She was watching a cooking show on television. A woman pointed to a row of apples, explaining which were best for baking. "You shouldn't come today."
"Why not?"
"I have a cold," she lied. It wasn't far from the truth; crying had left her congested. "I've been in bed all morning,"
"You do sound stuffed up." There was a pause. "Do you need anything?" "I'm all set."
"Drink lots of fluids."
"Dev?"
"Yes, Miranda?"
"Do you remember that day we went to the Mapparium?" "Of course.