He loved her, of course, but better than that, he chose her, day after day. Choice: that was the thing.

When Indian women begin the search for an Indian man, they carry a huge list of qualifications. He has to have a job. He has to be kind, intelligent, and funny. He has to dance and sing. He should know how to iron his own clothes. Braids would be nice. But as the screwed-up Indian men stagger through their lives, Indian women are forced to amend their list of qualifications. Eventually, Indian men need only to have their own teeth to get snagged.

But, in the Trump aftermath, I've measured the costsAnd benefits of loving those who don't loveStrangers. After all, I'm often the odd one—The strangest stranger—in any field or room."He was weird" will be carved into my tomb.

We continueLovinglyDespiteThe crimesCommittedAgainst anyAnd allOf us.

The world is too fucking big. Sometimes, I can't even carry myself through all the love and fear.

My grandmother's last act on earth was a call for forgiveness, love, and tolerance.

She kissed him like he was a warrior; she kissed him like she was a warrior.

But I don't know how much joy she experienced while loving me. I don't know how much joy I was capable of feeling or providing.

And none of these people, not one of them, had loved any of the others well enough. Failures, he thought, we're all failures... He wanted his love to be the wine and bread, and the blood and flesh. He reached for her, a dangerous stranger in a city of dangerous strangers, but she turned away from him and walked unsteadily through the crowd. How many loveless people walk among the barely loved?