Free Imaginary Men by Anjali Banerjee

between the store clerk and a man perusing the underwear. I consider rushing over tointroduce the two lovebirds, but they’re already gawking at each other.
    As Kali sifts through the lace panties, my mind wanders to Raja Prasad. India seems so distant now, a mirage, yet he sneaks into my memory. I think of the three forms of twilight and imagine him gazing at the stars. I wonder whether he always gives stones to women. He’s probably found a perfect, obedient wife. I wonder whether she wears skimpy lingerie. I wonder—
    â€œHere, this’ll look smashing on you.” Kali holds up a black thong, a strip of floss attached to a waistband.
    â€œToo risqué for a date with a doctor.”
    â€œHe probably sees naked women at work every day,” Kali says. “Is he a gynecologist?”
    A couple of heads turn our way.
    â€œKeep your voice down!” I whisper. “No, he’s not, and I’m not stripping for him.”
    â€œOh, behave! You have no guts. How about this?” She grabs a red lace teddy. “Here, perfect!”
    â€œDo you wear this stuff, Kali? Do Ma and Baba know?”
    â€œOf course they don’t know. They would both have heart attacks.” She pulls me to the mirror. “Raja will be so
switched on
.”
    â€œLook, Kali—” Why did I choose the name, Raja? Freudian slip? If I tell Kali I’m making up the fiancé, what will she think? I have to tell her. The truth dances on mylips, then she says, “You know, Baba hasn’t been well again.”
    I swallow my words. “What’s happened?”
    â€œAnother bout of the flu, probably from one of his patients. He works too hard, and then Ma starts to complain of this or that ache. They’re both such wrecks. I worry.” She picks a set of pink lace underpants and bra for herself.
    â€œI worry too.” If I tell the truth now, our parents will end up in the ER. Or worse.

Twelve
    I
yank all the clothes from my closet and throw everything on the bed. Ten different pairs of baggy pajamas. I love pajamas. I’d wear them to work, shopping, to nightclubs, if I could. I own only a few dresses. They fit my curves two years ago, but now I’m verging on anorexic.
    You’re beautiful
, my imaginary man says from the chair in the corner. He’s in khaki slacks and a denim shirt with the two top buttons undone. He watches me peel off my blazer, blouse, and pants.
    I try on the sleeveless purple dress I wore for Nathu. I look like a dehydrated grape. Then I try on a black tubedress, which makes me resemble a burned breakfast sausage.
    All those clothes look sexy on you
, my imaginary man says.
But I prefer you in nothing at all
. I picture him lighting a cloves cigarette. Nathu smoked but didn’t live long enough to let it kill him. He inhales, then sends the smoke curling up to the ceiling.
    â€œI can’t go to dinner in nothing,” I mutter, heading for the bathroom to shower.
    Why go at all?
He follows me, slips out of his clothes, and joins me in the shower.
    â€œI have to get out of this apartment once in a while.” I grab sandalwood soap and work up lather.
    Why not stay home? We’ll put on a little music. Barry White. Open a bottle of champagne.
    Barry White? I prefer Dave Matthews.
    I wash quickly, rinse, and jump out of the shower. “I can’t stay. I have to find someone my parents will like. Someone with whom I can settle down. A guy who makes money, from a good family—”
    I come from a good family. I make oodles of money.
    â€œIt’s not real money. It’s like … Monopoly money! You’re a Monopoly game guy.”
    I picture him shrugging as he watches me choose a conservative maroon dress.
    So what? I can satisfy you. What’s wrong with me?
    â€œNothing.” I brush my hair, apply a shade of lipstick to match my dress. “You’re perfect, except you’re not real.”
    I’m as