Varsha emerged from the refrigerator, nostrils twitching, “Fungus is edible, right?”. Sandhya interrupted her fluid dance on the keyboard, “Are you cooking again, V?”. She could’ve been a piano player, if it weren’t for those stubby fingers her father dealt her.
Varsha grunted and disappeared into lentils. “Are you finally working on that play? Here’s a character for ya — double-strollered bisexual mom with a collection of fortune cookie sayings”.
Sandhya chortled like a tipsy camel, “I’m sorry V, you were saying?”. Varsha slammed the pressure cooker whistle, “You’re emailing him, aren’t you? We’re back to witty repartee, are we?”
Sandhya snuck her spoon into the family-sized nutella tub, “It’s what couples do, no?”.
Varsha tossed the burnt cumin seeds into the yellowing pot, “Couples? Right. Couples…Couples have sex”. Lentils. Somebody ought to make a chart mapping lentils to pressure cooker whistles. Charts are consistent. Consistency is good, like vending machine Twix. Or winged sanitary pads. Stirring rapidly, she offered, “Sorry Sandy, I was outta line”.
Sandhya held onto her spoon like a drowsy infant does a breast, “You know what’s sexy? Cold vanilla ice-cream on molten chocolate cake with a drizzle of quick-freeze fudge…”
A bunch of withered coriander lay forgotten on the cutting board. “Food porn”, Varsha declared.
Sandhya lit up, “Porn can be sexy, V”.
Surveying the simmering brew with charred debris, Varsha flung her kiss-the-cook apron away and sighed, “Which restaurants deliver in 30 minutes? I’m starving”.