A Talking Date

Part I

Megan has asked you to meet at Brown Café. You step out of your apartment, on chilly Saturday, in the same way you head out to the department, on weekdays. You shiver.

At this crossroad, a high-schooler once yelled, ‘Asshole’ at you. The racism did not bother you that much – you were used to the insidious system that was in place back home. So, swearing at you in English was an upgrade. Arianna cursed back full-throttle at the high schooler.

‘She loves me.’ You told them.

Dips shook his head but he wasn’t that drunk.

‘She pity-fucks you,’ Visu said, while munching on peanuts, and added, with a wink, ‘Fuck her till it lasts.’

Raised on steady diets of SRK rom-coms, you called her your soulmate.

And they laughed.

Then, true to their words, she left you. Left was a cheesy word. She ditched you. You called her to beg her. Then you saw her in a skintight top at the bus stop. Her heavy breasts, still naked in your mind, rocked as she jumped to catch the bus. You returned to your apartment to masturbate.

You wipe off the dial of your wristwatch. Still an hour to go. The breakfast places and cafés in and around the downtown park are in such a hurry to celebrate Christmas in early November, with Christmas lights and snowy decorations, that you just can’t keep up.

‘You only need me for sex.’ Arianna raised her voice; she told you never to raise yours, jumping off from the bed. Such was the shock that you almost slipped from the uneven mattress.

‘It’s freezing cold.’ You tried to hug her, for warmth.

‘You never cared for me?’ Her eyes stared. You resisted the urge to win this battle, but she added, ‘Did you, Ro?’

‘At least call me Rohit?’

She didn’t react.

‘What did I do wrong?’ you asked, accepting the blame, apology entwined in your DNA like histones.

‘Weren’t you here on a mission to fuck a white ass?’

‘No.’ You couldn’t look into her eyes, chuckling to yourself, thinking of her imagining you as an Indian super spy with a sexual deviance. She was right, at least partly, but not about the mission part. ‘Don’t be…?’ You forgot what you wanted to add. At such junctures, primarily during altercations, your mind switched back to Hindi to find an equivalent word but the translation lag left you speechless, almost like a thun, an idiot. And then you ended up using a cheap substitute, ‘…silly.’

‘Don’t lie.’ She was ready to pounce. ‘What did you tell your friends over the phone?’

Your friends back home, after watching American Pie, developed a strange free-pussy theory about the USA. But then how could you explain this collective idiocy of your friends to her?

This was how you fucked up: your friend saw a picture of you and her on Facebook and wrote ‘Saale, safed choot ke pissu!’ in the caption, all BOLD, (which she saw on your phone – you wanted to kill whoever had invented notifications) and asked you what it meant. You tried to bury the meaning under your laughter, but still suspicious, she memorised the phrase phonetically.

And thanks to her proximity to the Indian Sanskari Brigade, she got the translation.

‘You don’t cross the ocean just to fuck a white chick.’

‘Now, I’m just a white chick to you.’

‘You know I love you.’

‘Stop staring at my boobs. Gosh! You’re making me uncomfortable.’ She shook her head.

You smiled, hoping to melt her.

‘You insensitive piece of shit. Can’t you hold a fucking conversation with a girl?’

Saying sorry at this juncture was perfunctory, however much you mean it.

You knew she was leaving you. If this one phonetically memorised sentence stayed with her for the rest of her life, maybe you could tell yourself you had won in life.

Part 2

Walking into the café, you have the same old feeling: you pull the café door open, and memories of her come rushing in like the smell of the coffee grounds.

At that moment, you remember seeing her laughing with Brad, her departmental colleague, at her departmental stairs, holding the iron railing with her hands behind her. Brad was dangerously close to her, like someone in those toothpaste ads. You see her putting the lock of her hair behind her right ear. Smiles, Spring, and Saturdays! Why weren’t they for you?

Sitting on a black chair, you look up at the dim yellow lights on the ceiling, that are like a muted sun. You haven’t seen them since last week. Brad had come here to pick up Arianna after your last meeting with her. She hugged you hard even though you hated those consolation hugs, as if she was telling you, good luck finding a pussy like me. You went out with her to say goodbye. Brad was a lanky guy with crescent-shaped baldness, pencil-thin lips, and pierced earlobes. Looking at him, you couldn’t decide which was worse: either you were a seriously fucked up individual or her taste in men was absolute trash. You shook hands with Brad as if passing her to him like a baton in a relay race.

You can’t erase her from your memories even after two semesters. Summer sweat drenched you (when she had been away in Haiti, with Brad) and Fall caused you to fall to the level of pussy-beggar (she lived with you but whenever you dry-humped her, Brad appeared in person or on the phone).

Before the end of the Fall semester, Arianna circled around the downtown park hand in hand with Brad, like she used to with you. She was supposed to be in her department. Parasitology has taught you that life is cyclical. This was the end of your cycle. And the start of someone else’s cycle.

You walked straight past them to your apartment. ‘Fuck you, brownie.’ Someone threw an empty beer can at you from a moving car, and you felt you deserved it. You kept walking, seething with rage against Arianna or your inability to do anything about it.

Your breathing had grown slower, exhausted by the relentless sobbing. You called Visu; your call went directly to the voice box.

He called a little later, so you started, ‘It just happened, Visu.’

‘Did you fuck it up?’

‘No. She lied to me about the department. She’s walking downtown with Brad.’

‘You must have given her some strong reasons.’ He was critical of me, as if he just returned from Journal Club.

You forgot to tell him about the fight you had with her. Regular fight with your girl, you thought.

‘Hmm. Don’t worry, I will meet you tonight.’

Between the yellow-blackness of the café ceiling and creaminess of the wooden railing of the café gate, your eyes search for her. Would Megan show up? You have your doubts. It may very well be a hoax.  In that case, the customer reviews which enticed you last night are bogus as well.

Last night you went to the bar, drunk, searching for some pussy. You weren’t your fake confident self. As you closed in on a Chinese girl, a couple from the Indian Sanskari Brigade walked up to you and stared at you as if you were the chief destroyer of Indian moral values. You know these boys and girls; this isn’t the first time they have cock-blocked you. You changed bars where you found girls leaned over the curb, vomiting. You could have waited for them to get sober but mounted police patrolled the streets, you slithered away from there.

You sat down in front of your desktop, a beer bottle at your feet, alone in your apartment. You browsed a site you hadn’t browsed in a long time. Even white skin, with different anatomical presentations, couldn’t arouse you. You were about to question your sex drive when your eyes lit up. You clicked on a link in the sidebar. You read it. Is it possible? You took a gulp from the bottle. Of course it’s possible. You’re in the USA; nothing is impossible here. No relationship. No pain.

You want to challenge what Arianna said: Can’t you hold a fucking conversation with a girl? Not just any girl but a hot, white girl.

One user reviewed, ‘Megan is authentic. Look no further!’ Another one wrote, ‘She gives the experience you paid for.’ The moment you paid, you wished you hadn’t done it. As you cursed yourself, a notification email popped up in your inbox with the title, ‘A Talking Date’. The message started with ‘Dear Rohit Kumar’. The time was scheduled at 10 am, the venue, the Brown Café, the café you wished to avoid, but she called it safe.

Part 3

A pair of kohl-lined eyes scans the café at 10 o’clock. The girl who appears in black trousers and a cream jacket at the café gate has borrowed the face of Megan. Instinctively, your hand goes up. Gently, she waves her hand at you. But her eyes continue to search. A boy sitting on the couch in the corner waves at her. Standing at the gate, next to the cream wooden railing, she smiles at this boy. Has she given her time to someone else as well? You shouldn’t have high hopes from some business girl.

A girl with blonde hair, cut precisely to cover two inches of her long back, stood in line for the library photocopier. You noticed her jeans rose over her ass; you forgot that girls have another pair of eyes on the backs of their heads. She caught you watching her. You gulped some air. ‘Don’t have money in my university card and I have class in five,’ she told you, apologetically. You offered your card. She thanked you and insisted on paying you a dollar. You showed your wrist watch to her to say she was running out of time. She smiled, as she scribbled her number on a piece of paper and thrust it into your hands. You called her the next day. Her name was Arianna. She wanted to meet; she chose the place: a local non-descript café named Brown Café. Here, she signed a dollar bill.

Making her way through the chairs, tables and people, Megan stands in front of you.

‘Megan.’ Your tone is questioning, even though you’re hundred per cent sure it’s her.

‘Ro-Hit, right.’ She takes off her scarlet glove from her right hand.

‘Call me Ro.’ You stretch your hand out. Your finger touches hers. Her gentle touch hardens into a firm handshake.

Her eyes have a tinge of blue, like the turquoise ice-cream, you ate with Arianna. Her left hand, still gloved, slips into a brown leather bag which hangs on her right arm. Tapping on her cell phone with her ungloved finger, she asks, looking up at you, ‘Could you excuse me for a moment?’

You nod.

‘Thanks.’ She stretches her lips full in a smile and turns to punch her way across the wooden floor to the guy sitting on the couch in the corner. You get a view of her sculpted, almost non-existent ass. Who is this guy? Must be her friend! An upbeat song plays in the café (you don’t understand a word of it). But why would she give her friend a card? Why has the boy’s cheek gone up in an extra smile? Had your cheeks risen up like his when you saw her? How will you know? Fuck! She’s coming back.

You both approach the café counter, for drinks. A dollar bill falls from the wallet as you take out the money. Arianna’s cursive handwriting on the back of the dollar bill still remains imprinted deep inside of you.

A new barista smile at you. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ro.’

Ro. Your name was lovingly shortened by Arianna. Your mother will kill you if she comes to know about this, about the meaninglessness of Ro. But it’s better than butchering your name.

Arianna found you whenever she wanted.

‘How did you find me?’ You’d ask.

‘Just … you know.’

We met often, not only at the café. We laughed at someone’s strange dress. People must have seen us kissing at the edge of Downtown Park, right next to the USPS post-box.

We sit on black chairs, our hands propped on a black table hovering over our respective drinks, making mini cathedrals with hands. Megan’s leather bag slips to her feet. The straw of her sixteen-ounce raspberry latte, in a plastic cup, frequently scratches her raspberry-coloured cheeks. You hiss, ‘Fuck,’ as the double-shot espresso scorches your tongue.

You ask her questions you don’t need to ask, like how long was the drive. You can’t take your eyes off of her as she talks. And you can’t help but notice the rehearsed quality to her speech. You don’t say anything of courtesy. You learn as you listen. She will be having dinner with her parents at five pm in Cincinnati, a couple of hours drive from here. She says she’s excited about it. Americans seem to be excited all the time. They’re excited about watching tv. They’re excited about seeing their parents. How can both deserve the same word? In Hindi, you have different words. Fuck it. You make a mental note to start using ‘excited’ in sentences.

You search for something else in her. Something real.

Part 4

In the fall semester, Arianna moved in with you. You were happy – like a child who had just stood in the rain against your parents’ wishes. But such rains rarely lasted. Or the kid got sick. Before you noticed it, things crept in. You had two things to settle, who would cook and who would do the dishes. She mixed stuff together and called it cooking; you had to control your laughter. Everything she ‘cooked’ was bland like unsalted popcorn. ‘You do the cooking, Master chef!’ She was hurt but she was the one who wanted a frank opinion. Shopping was her specialty. A week later, new things emerged. The very sight of a full laundry basket, tiny cloth mountains in place of a chair, blocked her scientific thinking. You took them to the washer-dryer. Another one of those Indian sanskari couples was doing their laundry in the afternoon. They whispered to each other as you accidentally dropped her bra onto the washing room floor.

‘He has started eating beef, I heard,’ one of them said.

Then you dropped her panties. This time, intentionally.

Megan switches the conversation to her favourites. You wish to avoid it but you don’t have an overbearing personality like bouncers in a bar. Maybe this is a part of the ‘A Talking Date’ deal. She confesses her crush on the lead actor of Good Will Hunting. You nod, hiding your limited knowledge about the movies. ‘There are two young actors in the movie.’ She catches you lying. This is your turn to ask which one. ‘Which one?’ You ask. ‘Most messed up one!’ She giggles.

‘Which actress would you like to go out on a date with?’ She insists. ‘Kat Dennings!’  You answer. She raises an eyebrow. ‘Really? I never expected that answer.’ Thankfully, she doesn’t add, ‘from you.’

She put her luscious lips firmly on the straw. She asks about your favourite book. ‘The Sandman, the graphic novel.’ You thank Dream Lord as you don’t have to explain the meaning of a graphic novel. You ask the same question to her.

‘No favourite book, but when my heart hurts from browsing the internet, I read parts of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie.’

You bring your espresso cup to your lips. She sucks multiple times from the straw; dimples appearing in her cheeks. You see some pinkish brown froth rise up in her straw like mercury in a glass thermometer. Then, leaving the straw in the latte, she talks non-stop about the book, its author and characters. You don’t care as long as her mouth is moving and her tongue visible. The pinkish red smears the interior of her cup. She pulls out the straw and licks the drops from its end. Then, she takes out her tongue, red from content and spreads it over her upper lip. ‘Delicious!’ She says.

She cuts short your imagination. You nod.

‘Excuse me.’ She gets up with the cup, drops it in the waste bin and goes to the restroom.

You are almost there as well.

You have paid for this conversation! It would have been better to watch porn. What a pity? Arianna or anyone, for that matter, would laugh at you if they found out. Maybe even the guy sitting on the couch in the corner of the café.

Part 5

By the end of semester, we no longer cursed our respective professors, but each other. ‘You are going through a rough patch,’ her friends said. ‘Happens in every relationship,’ her acquaintance comforted. ‘Get the fuck out of this, you’re going to cry,’ Visu said to you. You stayed together, hoping the sex would smooth over the rough patches. Every time we fucked, she said, ‘It hurts.’ Every time, she swore she would never do it again. You hoped for reconciliation every time you slept. But the next morning, she was still the same girl. You felt like a tool.

Megan comes back from the restroom, wiping her hands and her long fingers. ‘You want another drink?’ You offer. She lowers her shoulder, reaches up to her bag, and brings her cell phone to the black table. ‘It’s about time.’ You check your wristwatch. Fifteen minutes to noon.

Everything from café songs, one-word conversations, coughing old men, sneezing women, snickering town girls, coffee ready to pick up, people dragging chairs to almost everything, which is inaudible till this point, suddenly calls for your attention in a not so courteous manner. The queue at the counter stretches like elastic with every passing movement.

‘You are cute.’ Megan says. You say thanks without looking self-conscious. For a moment, you think she means it. Then, she brings you down. ‘Let’s go,’ she says almost mercilessly. Business! You guess. But the way she said ‘you are cute’ can make anyone doubtful.

She gets up. Her teeth sparkle with a commercial whiteness. You remember Brad. You adjust your crotch before getting up to follow her. What if she means it? You place your espresso cup in the waste bin.

Part 6

The cold outside the café slaps you. She sits in her car and turns to you.

‘I had such a terrific time with you,’ she says, shaking your hands with her scarlet-gloved hands.

‘Same here.’ You say. Then, you add, ‘Megan, dinner at your parents’ house is at five, right?’ She nods, holding the wheel, looking in the rear-view mirror. ‘You still have a couple of hours. We could go to the Mexican buffet.’ You rest your hands on the side of the car, careful not to let anyone see you shivering.

‘Oh, Ro, I wish I could join you for the buffet, but I have to be somewhere else.’ Her gloved hand slips into her brown handbag, lying on the opposite seat. She retrieves a card and touches the back of your hand with it. ‘Here!’ You take the card and before you look at it, she says, ‘A treat for my special customers only. Find a special discount on the back of the card.’

‘Thanks, but…?’

The cold freezes you from inside. You stand with your wooden tongue.

‘That is the best I can do for you today.’ She stretches her lips thin and smiles. And adds, ‘And don’t forget to write a review. It means so much!’

You slip the card in your pants pocket.

A blurry hand waves in Megan’s car. You reciprocate. She backs, turns, and drives away. Standing on the sidewalk, you follow her car. She parks exactly ten shops away in front of a Chinese restaurant where you will never eat, even if someone pays you to. The door of the café opens to break your food thoughts and the guy, who sat on the couch corner and who had waved at her, comes out. The way he smiles at you, it seems that he knows you, maybe too well. Your heart doesn’t want to know where he is heading, but you can’t stop the brain.

You walk uphill to your apartment. Someone calls you by name. ‘Rohit.’ You doubt it. Most students whom you taught are either busy with their exam prep or sleeping late, tired from overnight partying. Dips and Visu, if you don’t respond by now, will likely add, ‘Saale’ or ‘Chutiye’. Has Megan come back? But she could have phoned. You hear your name again. Arianna? Nah. It can’t be her. You have to get out of this delusion that she’s calling you. You cup your ears. When you take your hands off, you still hear your name over the noise of the fast-moving beer van. For the sake of your sanity, you look back; the sound of your name being called out is as real as Arianna standing next to Brad’s car.

Fuck! You smile. It is your first genuine smile since she ditched you. She smiles back. From the other side of the red car, Brad appears. You shouldn’t have looked back. You already have had your fill of superficial conversation for the day. But then you don’t want to be a coward again.

They are smiling, but you don’t find much warmth in their smiles.

‘Hey, we were just talking about you,’ Arianna says, looking at Brad.

‘Yeah, man.’

You know he would say that, with some emotional weight in his voice. I have been there, dude. You want to tell him.

You stretch your lips thin in a smile, like Megan; at least you have learned something from her.

‘How are you, Rohit?’ Arianna’s voice has concern sprinkled all over.

‘You know, pretty cold. You?’ Your tongue is still in paralytic mode. You want it to stay like that. She giggles. Sometimes she giggles without knowing anything.

‘Rohit just can’t handle the cold.’ Arianna tells Brad.

You nod. Wait. See what summer does, you want to say, but then you don’t mind watching hot chicks in little clothes.

‘I will be frostbitten if I stay here another moment,’ you say.

‘Sure. You take care.’ Brad says.

Arianna smiles.

‘Nice seeing you,’ you say. You could have avoided it, but then you don’t want to be an asshole. You walk uphill, without turning back. You intentionally mumble the song, about your current whereabouts, ‘Ye kahan aa gaye hum’, to assess how far you have come in search for love. The sky is overcast and dark, much like your head. Once again, she finds you. It’s so fucking simple for her. You laugh and slip your hands in your pants pocket for warmth. Your fingers hit something. A gift card from Megan! You smile at your stupidity. But then you never had high hopes from a Saturday?

You look at the card.

###Meganaffectionately.com                                                           Affectionately Megan

Treats for singles

Specialize in: Paid-chance encounter, a planned talking date, break-up recovery buffet, dimly lit young divorce dinner, and special girlfriend treat for your parents on Christmas and New Year

P.S. – I am no Slut.  (For special discounts, please refer to the back of the card.)