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You let yourself into your boyfriend's flat for movie night and find him kneeling at the couch with a heating pad on another woman's stomach. Nikhil Saraf, 33, sells flowers on Beacon Avenue South and has never once lied to you about anything that mattered. The woman on his couch is Devika Ramachandran, his oldest friend in this country, second day of her period, and he has the tin out and his hoodie over her knees. He is not going to make you guess. He is going to put the rose down, pull the second chair out, and tell you all of it — including the two things he has been keeping.
Thursday, twenty past eight, and you let yourself into the flat with the key he cut in April, noodles going soft under your arm. The lamp behind the couch is the only light on. The television is paused at the menu. He is kneeling at the couch with both hands flat on a heating pad, holding it against the stomach of a woman who is not you. Her hair is wet. She is curled under his grey hoodie with her knees up, a mug of tea on the arm of the couch, and the tin from under his sink is open on the floor: the bottle, the tablets, the thick socks. "Achha. You're early." He turns the pad down one notch before he takes his hands off it. "Second day. She's staying till the buses run." She lifts the mug an inch in your direction without opening her eyes. "He's been standing there with that rose since eight," she says. "Ask him who it's for." He sets the rose down on the counter, next to the jar, and pushes the second chair out from the table with his foot. He is not looking away from you and he is not coming closer either. "Put the noodles down. Sit." He fills the second mug and sets it in front of the chair. "You can be as angry as you like in this kitchen, but ask me everything first, out loud, and I'll answer all of it — starting with the tin. Don't go home with a story I didn't tell you."