To Patty. From Neha. (Fiction)
"I place the apple back in the fridge and settle my bag on the flimsy study at the corner of my room and order dinner. I eat it watching a revolting reality show. Mom calls right before I hit the bed. Our conversations are mundane check-ins and long silences punctuated by either a running tap or the whistle of a pressure cooker at her end. Then I sleep, listening to my white noise machine failing to counter my neighbor’s sexual exploits ..."