Read Online Imaginary Men by Anjali Banerjee - Free Book Online Page B

research?” She picks up a postcard from the windowsill.
    I spin around and snatch the card from her. The image is an old black-and-white shot of a double-decker Paris accumulator tram, with “Philippe du Roule Vanves” written on the side and the Eiffel Tower in the background. I read Harry’s handwriting.
My dearest Lina, Loving Paris, but there’s an ache in my heart. I wish you were here. With love and affection, xoxoxoxoxo.
    â€œThe man’s trilingual, and he never includes a signature,” Donna says. She doesn’t notice that the postmark stamp is from Daly City instead of Paris. Any moment, the jig will be up, and I’m tired of letting the lies accumulate behind my eyes.
    â€œIf I tell you something, will you promise to keep it a secret? You’ll understand, but my family won’t. I’ve dug myself into a deep pit.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    I take a deep breath. “I don’t really have a fiancé.”
    â€œWhat?”
    I tell her the story, and she breaks into easy laughter. “You’re something else, woman.”
    I feel marginally better, now that I’ve told her.
    â€œI need to find a real guy before Auntie Kiki arrives.” I put the postcard next to the others. The Taj Mahal, a big stone face sculpture in Paris, an aerial shot of Amsterdam.
    Donna riffles through the photos. “I’ll help with your research. I’m an expert. Here, this guy’s an intern at S. F. General. Perfect guy.”
    The picture shows a handsome Indian man with a full head of hair, average eyes, and an average smile. Fair-skinned to wheatish. A surgeon-in-training. A man my parents will adore.
    â€œI shouldn’t date a client,” I say.
    Donna purses her lips. “My job is to find the perfectmate for my clients. Now you’re my client, okay?”
    â€œCould be a conflict of interest.” I roll my chair back and cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t usually date Indian men coming straight from the mother country.”
    â€œThere’s always a first time.”
    â€œThey expect their wives to starch their shirts.”
    â€œSend them to the dry cleaners.” Donna peruses his profile. “He’s looking for a professional woman. Age, caste, and religious affiliation don’t matter.”
    â€œWhat if I’m a Jehovah’s Witness?”
    â€œYou’re not.” Donna waves another photograph in front of my face. “How about this guy? He’s here on scholarship.”
    The photo shows an Andre Agassi lookalike lobbing a tennis ball over a net. “No athletes,” I say.
    â€œWhat, you have a problem with rippling triceps?”
    â€œI’ll see the surgeon, Mr.—”
    â€œDutta. Dilip Dutta.”
    After Donna leaves, I open my desk drawer and pull out Nathu’s portrait, still in the teak frame his mother gave me. I run my fingers along the glass. Nathu, face to the wind, sitting on a rock in Yosemite National Park, the sunlight reflecting off his perfect teeth. A handsome man, chiseled features—fair-skinned and a touch effeminate. Was he seeing other women?
    Maybe this charade is for the best. I’ll meet a new Knightin Shining Armor. I think of what Harry said.
Try widening your net
. Okay, so the man’s armor doesn’t have to shine. It could be rusty.
    I hope I’m not heading for doom on this date with Dr. Dilip.

Eleven
    I
need something to wear.
    I’ve come to the mall with Kali. She wants me to buy a skintight dress ten sizes too small.
    Teenagers breeze by in their navel-baring shirts and retro bell-bottoms, rings through their noses. Kali drags me into Victoria’s Secret. The store buzzes with customers—some couples, some single men. Pheromone-soaked perfume fills the air. I’m surrounded by transparent, X-rated intimates, black panties, satin push-up bras, and not-there nightgowns. A bright, shimmering thread vibrates