Then I sit at my desk and watch morning brighten across Chinatown. The sun hangs at the wrong angle in the sky. One minute I shiver, and the next minute the sweat droplets pop out on my forehead. The thermostat must be on the blink, or maybe my internal climate control has gone bonkers. I’m going through early menopause. Yes, that’s it. The hot flashes are starting, and I haven’t even had a chance to mate. What is it about love? Maybe chemistry. Is that what love comes down to? Beakers and steaming liquids and elements and chemical reactions and Bunsen burners? Is that what Raja and I were? Two Bunsen burners passing in the night? My voice-mail light blinks. I press through the messages. Mrs. Mukerjee demands to know why I set up her daughter with a lech who could be her great-grandfather. “Grandfather, not great,” I mumble, jotting down the message. I forgot to look at the man’s age. The Mukerjees have an appointment here later this morning. I listen for Raja Prasad’s message, but it never comes.
