Miranda knew how to wait. In the evenings she sat at her dining table and coated her nails with clear nail
polish, and ate salad straight from the salad bowl, and watched television, and waited for Sunday. Saturdays
were the worst, because by Saturday it seemed that Sunday would never come. One Saturday when Dev
called, late at night, she heard people laughing and talking in the background, so many that she asked him
if he was at a concert hall. But he was only calling from his house in the suburbs. "I can't hear you that
well," he said. "We have guests. Miss me?" She looked at the television screen, a sitcom that she'd muted
with the remote control when the phone rang. She pictured him whispering into his cell phone, in a room
upstairs, a hand on the doorknob, the hallway filled with guests. "Miranda, do you miss me?" he asked
again. She told him that she did.