Free Imaginary Men by Anjali Banerjee Page B

gives me an assessing look, elbows on the table. An awkward silence follows, then the waiter returns with our drinks. Dilip pours ale into an empty mug, not spilling a drop, then sips and puts down the mug directly opposite his water glass.
    I touch my earring again. “So, you’re a doctor. What’s your specialty?”
    â€œI’m still doing my residency. I’m on Emergency Medicine rotation.” I notice a red tinge in the whites of his eyes. I wonder how much sleep he gets.
    â€œThat must be exciting. Lots of drama. Do you get many gunshot and stab wounds?”
    â€œA fair amount. We also get sliced fingers and sick babies.” He takes another sip of ale.
    â€œI thought I wanted to be a doctor when I was five. I had a doctor’s kit, tried it out on imaginary patients.”
    â€œMost children play doctor, but few go on to study medicine. Your father’s a doctor. Are there any physicians on your mother’s side?”
    I sense Auntie watching me from afar, analyzing Dr. Dutta. She’d like his reserve, his dedication to his noble profession. He has a certain simplicity, or maybe he has unseen layers, like an onion. Or perhaps he just
smells
like an onion. I’m not close enough to tell whether the smell comes from him or the kitchen.
    â€œThey’re scientists and engineers. My mother’s familymainly lives in Kolkata, yes, but some have moved to Bangalore.”
    â€œAh, the Silicon Valley of India. They’re part of the outsourcing revolution?”
    â€œI think they like the weather there.” I fidget in my chair. He asks polite questions, but what does it all matter?
    â€œWhat’s your favorite color?” His eyes grow redder by the minute. The poor man. He probably hasn’t slept in a month.
    â€œMaroon. And yours?”
    â€œI’m a fan of cool green. Or maybe it’s because I wear scrubs at work.” His eyelids droop.
    Then behind him, my imaginary man appears. I try to blink him away, but the image won’t leave. He taps the top of Dilip’s head and gives me a wicked grin.
I told you you should’ve stayed home
.
    â€œDon’t rub it in.” I finish off my wine. Dr. Dutta came to see me, and he could’ve been catching up on his shut-eye.
    â€œExcuse me?” Dilip asks, yawning.
    â€œI’m just wondering where our food is.”
    On cue, the waiter hurries over with a tray. I’m grateful for the distraction. I try to ignore my fantasy man. At least he put on some clothes.
    The room grows fuzzy. Don’t I know not to drink on an empty stomach?
    Dilip finishes his ale, we polish off our meals, and then he droops forward over his empty plate, his chin lolling againsthis chest. He quickly straightens and blushes. “Please forgive me.” He gathers his cloth napkin and wipes his mouth.
    â€œIf you need to go and get some sleep, I won’t be offended.” A lump of dessert sticks in my throat.
    â€œIt’s not you. The hospital puts me on one rotation after another. You must work hard too.”
    â€œI have to keep names and faces straight in my head, and—”
    He’s nodded off again, poor guy. He’s nice enough, works hard, makes time for a date although he’s exhausted. I see no shimmering thread between us, but sometimes the connection needs time to grow. I ought to give him a chance. So why is my heart curled up in the fetal position? All I want to do is sleep.

Fourteen
    M
y time is short, and Mr. Right remains elusive.
    Friday night, I’m on a date with Patrick Malloy, a software gazillionaire who pokes his elbow into me at the Dave Matthews concert at the coliseum. We’re in the highest balcony, to the side. The seats press close together. We’re all sitting half on top of one another, and Patrick’s armpits give off a pungent odor. I lean away, but he angles his elbow to fill the space. He lifts a pair of binoculars to his eyes and