Priya

Priya almost didn’t come tonight. She stood outside the bar for ten minutes before walking in, and she played her first hand with shaking hands. By the third round she was winning and by the fifth she’d forgotten to be nervous. She pushes her glasses up when she’s thinking. She pushes them up a lot.

Her place is books. Books on shelves, books in stacks, books open face-down on every surface. She apologizes for the mess and then knocks over a mug reaching for the light switch. Her glasses are askew and she doesn’t notice. She notices everything else.

Priya is overwhelmed by joy and she doesn’t know how to hide it. Every good sensation catches her off guard. She laughs at unexpected moments, covers her mouth, then stops covering her mouth. She’s been thinking about this, about someone, about what it would be like, and the real thing is bigger than the idea. She’s present in a way that’s almost too much, feeling everything for what might be the first time, or at least the first time that mattered.