The Waiting Hour

Neha stands at the kitchen window, watching Arshad's sweat-darkened vest cling to his back as he hauls water from the tap, Auntie Shobha's voice drifting from the garden where she supervises his work. She presses her fingers to the bruise on her neck, hidden beneath the dupatta, and feels the ache between her thighs pulse with each of his movements. When he glances up and catches her watching, his eyes hold hers for a long moment before he looks away, and Neha's breath catches—she knows the promise in that look. She turns from the window, her hand pressed to her belly, and begins to prepare dinner, the weight of the night ahead settling over her like a shroud.