The word coming out of her with the specific weight of something that had been found rather than chosen — not an insult. An identification. The specific, precise word for the thing standing in front of her holding an ice cream cone.
Priya laughed.
Not the performed laugh. Something more honest than that — the specific, genuine, dark laugh of someone who has been called something accurate and finds the accuracy entertaining.
She turned.
Walked away.
Into the crowd. The specific, unhurried walk of someone who had finished a thing and was moving to the next one.
Meera stood.
The ice cream in her hand was dripping now — the warm syrup of it reaching her wrist. She looked at it. She looked at it for several seconds.
Her other hand found her belly.
The small, circular motion.
She looked at the space where Vikram had walked away. The space where Priya had walked away. The crowd filling in behind both of them, indifferent.
She stood in the center of all of it.
