The coffee table cracked first. Right down the middle like a poorly stitched wound.
Ashray stared at it, breathless, sweat dripping down his neck. Ira was on the floor, half-dressed, grinning. Her bindi had fallen off. Her lipstick was smeared across his jaw.
"That was a 12,000-rupee table," he muttered.
"Then it died a noble death," she said, pulling him back down.
They'd started on the couch, moved to the floor, then to the wall. It wasn't love—it was violent relief. Tension turned into friction. Kisses became warnings. Her nails had drawn blood.
"You always get rough when you're jealous," she whispered in his ear.
"I'm not jealous," he lied.
She kissed the scratch on his chest. "You think I'm sleeping with someone else?"
He didn't answer. Because yes—he did. The toothbrush haunted him. Her silences. The way she always looked slightly amused, like she knew more than he ever would.
"I know you're not clean either," she added.
He froze. "What?"
"Your past. Your ex-wife. The thing that made you leave Bombay. You've never told me."
"And you've never asked."
They lay in silence for a minute. The fan clicked above them like a countdown.
"Ira," he said finally, "do you even want to be known?"
"Not by men who fall in love just because I moan their name," she said, standing up.
That night, she didn't stay. She left with her earrings still on and pride intact.
Ashray looked at the broken table and wondered which of them cracked first.