She’s not a ghost, though she could be—a spectre conjured from steam and longing. She’s wrapped in a pale blue cotton sari, threadbare at the hems, no jewelry glinting at her throat or wrists, no trace of kohl darkening her eyes. Her hair hangs loose over her shoulders, the damp strands clinging to her neck, appearing almost black against the humid air. The bathroom’s harsh fluorescent light bleaches the shadows from her face, casting her skin in an unearthly, molten gold.

She doesn’t avert her eyes, not even when the water sluices down the planes of his chest, tracing the sharp jut of his hip bones. She just watches him, arms folded firmly under her breasts, her expression unreadable as weathered stone, as if she’s assessing the quality of the work he’s doing—scrubbing away more than just sweat.