She giggled, then moaned, then hissed out laughter through her tightly clenched teeth. So many things were so, so urgently funny that day. Oh, everything was. Everything? She snorted deeply and flung her arms over her head. Seemingly everything, yes. The surface of things, for sure. The depths, who knew; but the surfaces were hysterical.
The top-most funny thing being, of course, her husband´s nostril. Can you believe? She had noticed it this morning while he mixed his rice with the lentils she had burned—again. His left one was narrower than the right one, swear to God! And it wasn´t a distortion of the angle at which he was sitting, turned slightly away at the new dining table. No. She had circled him to serve more eggplant, some water, a cup of tea, and she had confirmed the odd, lopsided truth of the matter. She had been this close to burs ting out in glee when her eyes had landed upon the lack of definition to the bridge of his nose.
Wait, wait, now. She had stared at him wide-eyed, taking advantage of his averted gaze, trying to understand how she could have failed to notice until now. He was one of those men, she was finally forced to admit, who seemed to have a sharp bridge of the nose but had, in fact, an ambiguously shaped, some might say vague, bridge of the nose.
She cooed in celebration. One of those men. That type! The indistinct nose-bridge type, the whole brigade of them! She rolled onto her side and shoved her face into the bed spread to muffle her squeals of delight. Ooophh—just in time. Her body squirmed, her fists beat down on the bed, her legs kicked their way out of her sari, She raised her head gasping for air.