Adiba Jaigirdar

It’s more like a spark of happiness inside of her that’s now shining through on the outside.

where I pull up Google again and translate the word lesbian into Bengali.

“I thought maybe … you were kidding. Like an April Fool’s joke or something.”

“It’s … August.”

She casts a wary glance at the things I’ve laid out on the bed and then up at me.

“She’s Ammu’s aunt’s husband’s cousin’s daughter,”

It’s the most unsatisfactory way of eating I’ve ever been subjected to.

on cloud nine because this beautiful girl is holding my hand. I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything,

“I don’t have a type,” I say, and it’s true; I’ve never really thought about having a type. I guess my type is … beautiful girl. Which is a lot of them. Most of them? Pretty much all girls.

A wrinkle appeared on her forehead, like pronouncing my name was a difficult math problem she couldn’t quite get right.

I was being thrown out into the cold. Literally, because it was about thirty seven degrees outside despite it being September.