The morning sun cut through the dust in the tailor's shop, a thick blade of light that found the counter and the ten folded shalwar kameez waiting on it like a promise. Maya stood on the low wooden stool, the velvet of the fitting-room curtain brushing her bare arm, and the old tailor circled her with the tape measure looped around his neck.

"Turn," he said.

She turned. The stool wobbled under her heels and she steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder, feeling the bone beneath the thin cotton of his kurta. He was old enough to be her grandfather, his hands liver-spotted, his glasses pushed up on his forehead, but his eyes were clear and they did not hurry away from her body.

The tape came around her hips and he pulled it snug, the cloth pressing into the curve of her waist. His thumb found the dip there and held, a beat too long, and she felt the pressure of it through the fabric of her salwar.

"Your mother's measurements," he muttered, "were never this full."

Maya said nothing. The dust turned in the light between them, slow and golden, and she let the silence sit. She knew what he saw. Two years of estrogen had done their work, and the woman standing on his stool was not the boy who had once stood here in school trousers, shifting from foot to foot while his mother chose fabric.

"She was slim," he went on, letting the tape go slack. "Narrow here." His hand hovered at her hip, not quite touching. "You are not narrow anywhere."

"No," Maya said.

His gaze dropped to her chest. The blouse she wore was old, one of her mother's, a deep green that had faded at the shoulders, and beneath it her breasts sat heavy and full, the weight of them pulling the fabric taut across her ribs. She watched him look, and she did not cross her arms. She did not step back.

"You are married now?" he asked, and his voice had changed, gone thick at the edges.

"Yes."

He nodded, his eyes still on her breasts. "To whom?"

"My husband."

The answer hung in the warm air, and he did not press it. His hand came back to her waist, the thumb pressing in again, harder this time, and she felt the heat of his palm through the thin cotton. The tape measure was still in his other hand, but he had stopped measuring.

"The blouse," he said, "will need to be cut lower." His fingers walked up her side, tracing the seam of the blouse, and she felt each knuckle press against her ribs. "For the shape of you."

"Yes," she said again.

His hand slid lower, over her hip, down the outside of her thigh, and the tape measure dragged against her leg as he measured a line that had nothing to do with stitching. She felt his thumb press into the muscle of her thigh, and she did not step away. The stool was small under her heels, the curtain brushed her arm, and the dust turned in the light.

"So full," he said, and his voice was barely a murmur. "Everywhere so full."

Maya looked down at him. His face was level with her chest, and she could see the pulse in his throat, the way his jaw worked. His hand was still on her thigh, high now, the thumb pressing into the soft skin at the top of her leg, and she felt the heat of his wanting like a second sun.

"The fitting," she said, and her voice was calm, unhurried. "Will the salwar fit this way?"

His hand stopped. She watched him blink, watched him remember where he was, and a flush crept up his neck. But he did not take his hand away.

"No," he said. "The fitting needs more."

His fingers curled into the fabric of her salwar and tugged, a small pull toward him, and she stepped off the stool onto the floor. The curtain brushed her shoulder. The counter was behind her, the folded cloth of the ten shalwar kameez pressing into her lower back, and the old tailor was close, closer than he had been, his breath warm on her face.

"Which type dress you want?" he asked, and his voice was thick, the words slow.

She looked at him. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and behind them his eyes were dark and hungry, and she felt the shape of the moment settle around her like a garment cut to fit. She could have stepped away. She could have laughed, could have made a joke of it, could have reminded him of his age and the photograph of his family she had seen on the counter when she walked in.

She did not.

"Deep neck," she said. "Back less. Sleeveless." She watched his eyes drop to her chest again, and she felt the words land in him like stones in still water. "Tight fitting. Tight pants."

His breath caught. His hand came up, slow, almost hesitant, and then it was on her breast, cupping the weight of it through the faded green blouse, and she felt his palm against the shape of her, the heat of him through the cotton. She did not move. She let him hold her, let him feel the heaviness of her, and she watched his face as he did.

"Like this?" he asked, and his voice cracked.

"Like that."

His thumb found her nipple through the fabric and she felt it tighten under his touch, a small electric pull that ran down her spine. He made a sound, a small broken thing in his throat, and his other hand came to her waist, pulling her against the counter, pressing her back against the folded cloth.

She felt him then. The hard shape of him against her hip, pressing through his dhoti, and she looked down and saw the evidence of his wanting straining against the white cloth. He was hard, fully hard, and his breath was coming fast through his open mouth.

"Maya," he said, and she did not know he knew her name. Perhaps he had heard it from her mother, years ago. Perhaps he had simply decided. His hand was still on her breast, kneading it now, and his hips pressed forward, grinding the hard length of him against her thigh.

She let him. She stood against the counter with his hands on her and she let him press into her, let him grind against her hip, and she felt his cock through the dhoti, thick and straining, and she felt her own body answer. A wet heat between her thighs, a softening, a small surrender she did not speak.

"So full," he said again, and his mouth was at her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. "Everywhere. I remember your mother, but you—" His hips pushed harder. "You are more."

His hands moved to her waist, gripping her, and he pressed her back against the counter, the edge of it digging into her lower back through the salwar. She felt his cock against her hip, felt the hardness of it through the thin cloth of his dhoti, and she moved her hips to meet him, a small grind that made him gasp.

"Yes," he breathed, and his hands slid down to her hips, holding her, pulling her against him with each push. "Yes, like that."

She ground against him, slow, deliberate, feeling the length of him through the cloth, feeling the way he trembled against her. His mouth was on her neck, open and wet, and she felt the scrape of his stubble against her skin, felt his breath coming faster, felt the shudder running through his old body.

"You are married," he said, and it was not a question. "But you—" His hips pushed harder, faster. "You are not his."

She did not answer. She moved her hips against him, a steady rhythm, and she felt the wetness between her own thighs, felt her body opening to the heat of the moment. His hands were on her waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, and his breath was a pant against her neck.

"Maya," he said, and his voice broke on the word. "I am going to—"

She felt him shudder. Felt his whole body go tight, felt his cock jump against her hip, and then he gasped, a long torn sound against her neck, and she felt the heat of him through the dhoti, felt him come in his clothes, felt the shuddering of his body as he emptied himself against her.

She held still. She let him ride it out, his hips pushing against her in small jerking motions, his breath ragged against her skin, his hands gripping her waist like she was the only solid thing in the room. The dust turned in the light. The curtain brushed her arm. Somewhere outside, a bicycle bell rang and a voice called out, and the world went on.

He sagged against her. His forehead came to rest on her shoulder, and she felt the heat of his skin, felt the rapid beat of his heart through his thin kurta. His hands loosened on her waist, and he stood there, breathing hard, the evidence of his shame soaking into the white cloth of his dhoti.

Maya did not push him away. She stood against the counter with the old tailor leaning on her, and she felt the wet heat of his release against her hip, felt the slow return of his breath. She looked at the ten folded shalwar kameez on the counter, at the dust turning in the light, at the photograph of his family she had seen when she walked in—a woman, two sons, all of them smiling at a wedding.

His hand moved to her hip. His breath was still ragged, but his fingers found the curve of her waist and held there, a claim, a question.

"Which type dress you want?" he asked again, and his voice was hoarse, spent, but the hunger had not left it.

She leaned close. Her mouth came to his ear, and she felt him shiver.

"Deep neck," she said, soft as silk. "Backless. Sleeveless. Tight fitting." Her breath was warm on his skin. "Tight pants."

She felt his hand tighten on her waist, felt the small jerk of his body as her words landed. He pulled back to look at her, his face flushed, his glasses still crooked, and she saw the wanting in his eyes, the desperate old hunger that had not been satisfied and would not be satisfied now.

She smiled. It was a slow, sharp thing, and she watched his face as it landed.

"I am not free," she said. "My body is expensive. Out of your range."

His hand fell from her waist. She watched the flush deepen on his neck, watched him look away, watched him remember who he was and where he was and what he had just done. He opened his mouth, closed it, and the dust turned in the light between them.

Maya stepped back from the counter. She smoothed her blouse, adjusted the fall of her hair, and picked up her purse from the stool.

"The fitting," she said. "You will have the measurements ready by the end of the week."

He nodded, not looking at her. His hands were shaking as he reached for the tape measure, and she watched him fumble with it, watched him avoid her eyes.

"Same time," she said, and she walked past him, through the curtain, into the warm steam of the shop, and out into the morning sun.

The street was loud with traffic and vendors, and the light was white and hard after the dim of the shop. Maya stood on the pavement for a moment, feeling the heat of the day against her skin, feeling the wet patch on her hip where he had come in his clothes.

She did not wipe it away.

She walked home with her head high, the bangles on her wrist catching the light, and she thought of the ten shalwar kameez that would be cut to her measure—deep neck, backless, sleeveless, tight—and she thought of the old tailor's hands on her, and she felt the shape of her own power settle around her like a garment cut to fit.

She was the wife. She was the provider. She was the one who stayed.

And she was expensive.