She wasn’t literally on fire, but the chicken curry had boiled over, splattering bright orange oil onto the gas flame. A small, impressive tower of fire now danced on the stove. Aruna grabbed the damp kitchen towel, threw it over the wok like she was subduing a wild animal, and twisted the gas knob shut.
The smoke alarm was screaming, the baby was crying, and Aruna was pretty sure she had just set the kitchen on fire.
“One coat,” he said. “For me.”
That night, after Maya finally slept, Aruna sat on the balcony. The city humidity clung to her skin. Dika came out with two glasses of iced tea, the ice already melting.
