One night when I was eleven, we were eating dinner. Spaghetti. The tablecloth was red. Cross-legged on the floor. Forks in hand. And it was the first time we had a strange male at dinner; he wanted to marry my sister. And we, the other three sisters, were giggling until we had to run into the kitchen and stick our heads in the fridge until we could stop laughing. And my mother passed the khowse formally to my grandfather and my eldest sister was annoyed with us and all I remember about that moment was looking at the others, on the verge of laughter because there was a man at our table who wanted to marry our sister.
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