She was a Punjabi woman, a Sikh, my again and despite being born half a world apart we found each other working as peers on projects for the United States Commerce department. She had a quick, biting wit that was perfectly synced with my own. Our rapport was easy and despite not getting my pop culture references, we could still make each other laugh. We became inseparable work spouses: having lunch together grabbing coffee, working as pairs at each other’s desks, taking walks together on the work campus.
While our personalities meshed well, physically we were near opposites. She was the picture of elegance, with brown skin, impossibly long hair, and a thin, lanky frame that supported ample breasts. I was pale to a fault, burning easily in the sun, short brown hair, and the size and build of a football player whose body had soften over the years into what could be called the classic dad bod.
We flirted together almost immediately upon meeting. She was married with two young boys, confiding in me that the marriage was arranged, so nothing was ever going to happen. We would talk and get close. One day I noticed that she kept touching me, my knee and my thigh, when we talked, sometimes letting her hands linger. I would touch her shoulders, but tried to walk a careful line of workplace behavior.