Locked from the Outside

The pista man looked at me the way the Bandra men looked at me. Same angle of jaw. Same small twist of smile that says I have already decided what you are. And in front of twenty-eight people he said aren't you the laughing girl from the Bandra clip loud enough for the next table to hear. I kept the mic up. I laughed the right laugh. Inside I was already in the cab going home.

He was not on the list the builder sent. Neither was his phone pointed at me when I was not looking.

I keep thinking about the corridor door. Yesterday I pressed my forehead to that wood. Today it is locked from outside and the key is not in the lock. I know exactly how that lock sounds from yesterday — the click when it seals from the other side. I have a door alarm in the tote at my feet and an exit schedule I have not used because I am holding a mic and the room is laughing at a joke I did not make.

The marigold dupatta is still on top of the tote. I did not wear it. I told myself I would. I told myself it would be the small refusal in the mirror. Then I put on the pista earrings instead because the room was pista and I wanted to disappear into the palette. I hate that I know my own cowardice this clearly.

Suresh's headlights are on the highway. I keep thinking about that. Someone is coming, or someone is waiting, and I do not know which version is worse.