As Jameson and Prandi walked over to his Vespa, they were both wrapped up in their own private cocoons of thought. The one suddenly insecure and wondering if he’d misread the signs (maybe she didn’t really like him), the other modestly shy and hoping he didn’t think she was easy (maybe he liked her less because she acted like an American tonight, bold as brass).

That was what her mother called Prandi any time she tried to blend into her newly adopted culture. When she wanted to pierce her ears upon arriving in America at the age of 13 Prandi’s mother told her, “You are bold as brass, like these American balika! Why can’t you be more like me?”

The truth was Prandi wanted to be nothing like her mother. She didn’t want to stay tending house while her husband went out into the workforce. Prandi often worried that her parents didn’t take her aspirations of becoming a neurosurgeon seriously enough.

Jameson suddenly though very gently broke through her reverie. “Here’s a penny for your thoughts, Prandi.”