He didn’t joke. He looked at her—really looked. At the flour in her hair, the chipped nail polish, the fierce exhaustion in her eyes.
Now, “Ibu Hot” meant the thermostat in the apartment was broken again, and she was nursing a baby in the sticky, 32-degree Celsius heat. It meant her temper flared like the curry fire—fast and hot over small things: a spilled milk bottle, a missing sock, Dika’s casual “what’s for dinner?”
“One coat,” he said. “For me.”
Before Maya, “Ibu Hot” had been a joke between them. Aruna was a former graphic designer with a sharp bob and a wardrobe of tailored blazers. Dika would whistle when she wore red lipstick to the grocery store. Looking hot, Ibu, he’d tease. It was light, playful.
“You’re still her,” he said. “You’re just also on fire. In a different way.”
She sank into the water, and the heat of the day began to dissolve. For the first time in months, her skin felt cool. When she came out, wrapped in a towel, Dika was waiting in the hallway with a single red lipstick—the old one—in his palm.
“Ibu Hot!” her husband, Dika, yelled from the living room, not as a compliment but as a panicked warning. Ibu is hot. Mother is on fire.
“I’m sorry about the curry,” he said, handing her a glass.