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Or, worst of all, he’ll pity you for “still bringing that up,” though it has been so many years, though both of you have made the commitment of marriage.
Some even followed me to my apartment, or emerged from bushes and street corners, wordlessly, to take photos of me.
Whether in the center, where tourists and migrants abound, or in the periphery, where strangers openly confessed their lack of exposure, I experienced an unprecedented loneliness.
Being brown and Indian, I did not embody an appealing brand of foreignness.
Heavily inked lurking in cigarette-littered alleyways. Minuscule ramen joints awash with hungry beer-blossomed salarymen returning from work.
Host and hostess clubs oozing sequins and sex, recalling in florid technicolor the libidinal economy of the floating world.