GF is traveling so I went to Desi Spice for some naan and chicken tikka masala. An interracial couple walks in the door shortly after me and is seated at the table next to mine. It becomes clear right away that they're not married, but I can't figure out how they're connected. She knows him. I think she said something about his wife. But she is always bickering with him. She is familiar enough with him to be something of a bitch. He is trying to be nice and conversational, but she seems to have nothing nice to say about anything, shooting his tidbits of politeness out of the air with an almost practiced nonchalance. She asks for her dish to be extra especially hot. He asks for mild. She reminds the waitress that her dish is supposed to be extra especially hot, and I lean over and say, "I think that's a rare enough request around here that it won't be missed." To which she says, "Well, they forget." He is a “good old dog” of a man. She is younger by perhaps a couple of decades, which further puzzles me. They spend several moments in silence. He asks her if she likes other cuisines, maybe Cajun? She says this is the only restaurant she likes. More silence. It seems tense. Certainly I feel like *I* want to hurry up and get out of there. But I am enjoying the food too much. Even if the music in the restaurant (which is usually some bollywood video channel playing in the background) is actually one song on endless loop, playing while the bollywood channel silently features heavy doses of melodrama and formulaic dancing—line upon line of popularized-bollywood-dreck, choreographed on a backdrop of Indian splendor and bedecked with chintzy flashes of color and opulence. That one selection--that one piece of uninteresting, mainstream, bollywood pop-smeg must have played more than fifteen times while I was there. And the woman, who is watching the bollywood channel, says, "I like the outfits. And look, how come they never kiss?" The man says, "Well, most third world countries are reserved about that sort of thing. They keep themselves covered." The woman mildly disbelieves him. It seems she wants to bitch at him about his lack of understanding. I manage not to mention the copious quantities of bouncing, bollywood cleavage. I manage to fail to mention the bodacious, titillating, and torpid gooseflesh that is rampant in any Indian popular movie. I remain reticent on any mention of the vestiges of Victorian mores and taboos. The food is great. I practically lick my dish clean. I manage to finish my meal and leave before the woman can give the man any more of a hard time about his trip to Vegas which may not happen. Or express some disdain over his attempts at friendliness. Or whatever else it was I couldn't bring myself to hear because I was afraid I might reach over and unscrew her extra especially spicy head like a cheap bottle of soda.