Free Imaginary Men by Anjali Banerjee Page A

real as this bed
. He pats the mattress, comes toward me, and kisses the back of my neck. His lips whisper across my skin.
    Stay. Climb into bed with me.
    â€œAnd do what? Have imaginary sex?” I press my fingers to my temples. “Oh, I’m talking to myself. My neighbors will hear. They’ll know I’ve lost my mind.”
    Who cares what they think?
He lies on the bed. Naked.
    I turn away, force myself to finish getting ready. Then I leave him in the apartment and lock the door.

Thirteen
    D
r. Dilip Dutta wears his white shirt buttoned to the top, a red tie strangling his thin neck. His calm features remind me of the Buddha. His steady fingers rearrange his knife and fork on either side of the plate. He sips ice water, then puts the glass down at the top right corner of the plate.
    â€œYou look lovely,” he says in the congenial voice of a yoga instructor.
    â€œThank you—I didn’t have a thing to wear.” I twist my right earring. Greens Restaurant is crowded on Sunday evening, the conversation a steady background buzz of white noise and clinking dinnerware. The dramatic views of Alcatraz,the Golden Gate Bridge, and the Marin Headlands mesmerize me. I imagine flying out across the water, alighting on a sailboat, and floating away into solitude.
    â€œYour haircut is avant-garde. I like the modern look.” Dr. Dutta pats his own hair, combed to a fault.
    Modern as opposed to what, antique? “Yours is unusual too. Very … smooth.”
    â€œI have to keep it short for work.” His smile reveals straight, yellowed teeth. I wonder if he smokes. Doctors know the health hazards of smoking, don’t they? Maybe he drinks too much coffee. Or maybe he had a high fever as a child or had acne and took antibiotics. I hear tetracycline leaves stains on your teeth. Oh, I’m thinking about teeth.
    â€œShort hair is good.” I nod, keep nodding like a bobble-headed doll, then sip my water.
    He unfolds the cloth napkin and flattens the corners. Then he opens the menu, carefully running his finger past each item.
    I pretend to read the list of specials while regarding him. If he were my surgeon, I’d trust him. His hands wouldn’t slip. He wouldn’t make a mistake or forget a detail. He would arrange the options and weigh each one. He’ll be well regarded in his profession. Patients will flock to him from all over the world. He has a trustworthy face—a doctor’s caring, bland features and the Buddha’s serene gaze.
    I refocus on the menu. “So much green stuff. Makes me feel like a rabbit.”
    â€œThat’s the name of the restaurant. Greens. If you’d like to go somewhere else, we can—”
    â€œNo, no, this is fine. I like leaves and dandelions.” I sound lame, but Dr. Dilip Dutta doesn’t inspire me to poetry. His meticulousness makes me want to run home and mess up my apartment, toss my paper clips like confetti.
    He points to the appetizers. “The Thai spiced potato cake with wasabi looks good.”
    â€œI’m not a big wasabi fan. How about the marinated feta, asparagus, and melon salad?”
    His nose crinkles. “I’m allergic to cheese.”
    â€œThen we’ll skip the appetizer.” I try not to sound irritated. These stockings scratch my legs. I never wear stockings. Why am I wearing them tonight? I feel like a bachelorette on
The Dating Game
.
    I glance at the couple sitting to our right. They lean over the table toward each other, their words slicing the space between them. They’re fighting. At least they’re discussing something dramatic.
    â€œI’ll try the fresh pea ravioli with snap, snow, and English peas,” Dilip says, pronouncing each word as if it stands on its own.
    â€œThen I’ll have the linguini with caramelized onions and gorgonzola cream.”
    â€œA woman of taste.” He closes the menu and signals the waiter.
    After we order, Dilip