In the dimly lit room, a woman with thick, nude black hair sat on the edge of the bed. She was an Indian beauty, her back view showcasing her toned, caramel-colored skin and an intricate henna tattoo that adorned her arm. Her name was Priya, a 25-year-old software engineer who had recently moved to the city for work.
Priya’s long day of work had finally come to an end, and she was looking forward to a relaxing evening. She had just stepped out of the shower, her hair still damp and wavy, when she heard a soft knock on her door. She wrapped a towel around herself and opened the door to find her neighbor, Aryan, standing in the hallway.
Aryan was a tall, handsome man with piercing green eyes and a charming smile. He was also an Indian, but his family had moved to America when he was just a child. He was 27 years old and worked as a photographer.
“Hey, Priya,” Aryan said, his eyes taking in her damp hair and towel-wrapped figure. “I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner with me tonight. I know a great little Indian place down the street.”
