There was no identical phrase in English, but it captured precisely the tickle in Sandip’s brain when he first saw Pia. And his first feeling words: Koi No Yokan (Japanese)-the sense you may get, upon meeting a stranger, that the two of you are going to fall in love.

“Remember, she is not all women.” So Pia, he had written, Pia, Pia, Pia, on every inch of the opening pages of notebook one. Sandip invested in notebooks with pricey leather binding and paper as thin and translucent as her skin. Sandip had been translator and copy editor at Bangla Daily since graduating college, six solid years, how could he resist such a suggestion? A search on the Internet threw up dozens of sites dedicated to such lists, to bristling dictionaries of feeling words, in a cornucopia of languages. J promised, and in doing so trick them out of his soul and expose them to healing sunlight. Instead all Sandip needed to do was find the right words, in any language, and write them down, for his own eyes only, Dr. J said, one eye on the clock marking his exorbitant hour, “take your feelings, no matter how vague or complicated they seem, and force them into words.” He did not mean for Sandip to talk they had tried that method for a month and failed. J, who had given him the idea of feeling words. Or tied a string around the rim with a tag attached, and on the tag, in the cursive of his secret notebooks, penned the most feeling words of all: With Love.

Maybe he should have initialed his name on the side with black marker to complete the illusion. Sandip hugged the cup to his chest as if he’d acquired it at a Starbucks. Colorless as vodka, but with a viscosity that caused it to creep up the sides of the Pyrex cup with every miniscule tilt. Five hundred ml of sulfuric acid, 98 percent H 2SO 4. Then there was the temperament of the acid he was carrying. Elsewhere bouquets tottering in arms, double-parked cars with trunks agape, gold brocade dragging through grime, the hell of other people.

From the sweet shops launched pyramidal trays, sugary treats in pastel rows, grenades of syrupy goodness. February was wedding season, too, despite the icy slush on the ground, and the bridal-wear salons and jewelry boutiques on both sides of the street were vomiting shoppers. But this was a Wednesday afternoon, restocking time for Patel Brothers, the grocery store in the middle of the block, and Halal Meats, two doors down. On a normal day, Sandip Roy could cover the distance between his Bangla Daily office and Festive Fashion’s storefront in 126 steps, given it was only three quarters of a block, with start and end points both located on Seventy-Fourth Street in Flushing, Queens.

Kenyon Review Award for Literary Achievement.

Developmental Editing Fellowship for Emerging Writers.

The Patricia Grodd Poetry Prize for Young Writers.

Call of duty ed vanderhart