He told her on a Sunday morning. He had been meaning to tell her for two weeks, and on Sunday mornings they had always had the best conversations — not because Sunday was special but because neither of them had anywhere to be by a specific time, which removed the managed quality that weekdays produced.
They were sitting with their tea on the balcony, watching the society garden below, where the Sunday morning crowd was at its most visible — the serious walkers on their fifth lap, the children who had claimed the open area for cricket, two retired men from Block B engaged in what appeared to be a very slow game of badminton.
"Sunita," he said.
"Hm."
"I joined the Zumba class because I was suspicious of Freddy."
A silence. Then Sunita set down her tea cup very slowly and looked at him. He could not read her expression, which was unusual for him — after thirty-four years he could usually read her face the way he read blueprints, with the confidence of long familiarity. But her face right now was doing something he had not expected.
"Suspicious," she repeated.
"You talked about him every day. You seemed — you seemed like you did in Goa."
"In Goa."
