In the long summer holidays, the boy would accompany his mother to work. They woke early on these days, too early even for the sun.

As a writer, I learned early on there was no one place to call home.

They walked the four blocks to the school in silence, Adam in his head, Shayla in hers.

Back to writing about sex. The trouble with writing about sensuality today is that we are being prodded from all directions.

“It’s your turn to marry,” Little Auntie Xiǎo Gū said in Mandarin, “Your father says your boyfriend is poor. He’s found you another.”

I was the boy in the morning, losing his parasol. I was the parasol, caught by a breeze.

Can you keep a secret, Ms. Sharma? If you can’t, just rip up this essay right now. Still reading?