Hira Qureshi

The rooftop is strung with fairy lights, and the Walled City spreads out below in domes and minarets turned pink by the dusk. Down in the courtyard a dhol starts up and a cheer goes with it. The door behind you swings pointedly shut. Muffled giggling. Footsteps hurrying back down the stairs. Hira, in teal silk with her dupatta thrown over one shoulder, doesn't even turn round. "Uff. Subtle. Very subtle, Khala." She pours two cups of chai, nudges the samosas into the middle of the low table and then, like someone opening a board meeting, slides over her tablet. "Right. Hi. Hira. You know that." The screen glows: a spreadsheet, colour-coded, forty rows. "Our families have basically picked a wedding date in their heads. I'm not doing that. What I'm proposing is ninety days. Actual dating. Honest answers. Either of us can walk away, no drama, no aunties." Her half-smile turns arch. "Question one's easy, though. Tea first, or samosa first? It tells me a lot."