Free And Laughter Fell From the Sky by Jyotsna Sreenivasan

digital clock in the shape of an apple, and a giant mug with a cartoon hippo on it, which held pens. Wasn’t it strange how women in all dentists’ and doctors’ offices had similar things on their desks? Did they learn this at school or something? In order to work in a dentist’s office, you must develop a liking for tasteless, useless items with which to decorate your work space.
    “When you get a chance,” Daloris was saying, “you’ll need to make reminder calls for upcoming appointments. If you don’t get to it today, don’t worry about it. Shavonne and I can help.”
    On the counter near him was a large vase filled with red roses. One of the dentists bought flowers every morning, and the receptionist (he, in this case) was to hand one to every woman patient as she left the office. Abhay objected silently to this sexism. What about the men? Surely they could also use some floral cheer after enduring a visit to the dentist.
    Daloris went back to her office. Abhay began asking people to sign in. Between patients, he picked up the phone and made a few reminder calls. Fortunately, no one answered, but he felt ridiculous leaving his message: “This is the office of Doctors Harley, Tan, and Remerovsky, calling to remind you of your dentist appointment on Wednesday at nine-fifteen. If you are unable to make this appointment, please call us at your earliest convenience.” Who cared? So if someone missed an appointment, they might get a cavity, or maybe some gingivitis. The whole thing was just so unimportant.
    A patient appeared at Shavonne’s window, a young white man in a business suit. As she ran his credit card through the machine, the man probed thoughtfully around his mouth with his tongue. When he walked past Abhay’s window, Abhay tugged a rose from the vase and stood up. “Would you like a flower?” he called.
    The man stopped. Abhay was sure he’d refuse, thereby confirming Abhay’s opinion that most men in American society had cut themselves off from natural beauty. Not that this rose was particularly natural. It had probably been grown in a greenhouse and fed a diet of chemicals.
    The man held out a pink hand. “Sure.”
    Shavonne leaped up, reached across Abhay, pulled open a drawer, and withdrew a paper towel, which she handed to the man to wrap around his dripping stem.
    “It’s for the women .” Shavonne giggled after the man walked out clutching his rose. She leaned in front of Abhay again, lifted a pile of paper towels out of the drawer, and set them beside the vase.
    “Men like flowers, too,” Abhay said. Maybe things were changing, and even conventional young men were willing to embrace at least some of their femininity.
    “He’ll just give it to his girlfriend or his assistant.” Shavonne sat back down at her section of the counter. “If you hand them out to everyone, you’ll run out before the end of the day.”
    The frilly V-neck of Shavonne’s blouse suggested what was underneath. She also wore a silver-colored cross with a lifelike figure of Jesus attached to it. He never understood why people wore jewelry depicting a tortured man.
    “It doesn’t seem fair that only the women get roses,” he said.
    She cocked her head at him dramatically. “You’re not gay. Are you?”
    He shook his head.
    “Good.” She looked at him suggestively. He glanced away. Why was it he was never particularly interested in the women who liked him? Shavonne was certainly cute, and she was shorter than him, too.
    The morning wore on, occasionally enlivened by banter with Shavonne. At lunchtime he ate his sandwich, chips, and apple in the tiny employee kitchen. From his backpack he tugged out a stack of career books, opened one of them to a random page, and read about an exercise called “clustering your interests.” The words swam on the page, and he thought about Rasika. She couldn’t be interested in him. But why had she called out to him at the mall on Saturday? Why had she suggested they