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Raazgujal
John had had a crush on Claire since the first day he began working at that small ANZ branch in West Adelaide. Dark haired and fair skinned, with bright blue eyes, she was the prettiest of all the female clerks, though she wasn’t exactly what you could’ve called a stylish girl. Actually, John couldn’t remember a day she’d not worn a baggy bell-bottom jeans and a grey, nondescript sweatshirt. But he didn’t care. He’d always been attracted to tomboys. Maybe, he’d once reasoned out, this was how far his gay impulses went.
Now, by some unknown miracle, she was sitting there, opposite him at the restaurant table, her face buried into the menu card, while John was fiddling with his fork.
The waitress walked to them. “Fa ghe teds zaphy?” she asked.
“Tso”, John replied, smiling. “Qtijka lo munk do ba, darcha zi.”
She scribbled on her notepad. “Fif?”
Claire handed the menu over. “Bi ka luga poti,” she replied. The waitress nodded and drifted away.
John looked straight to Claire. A hush fell. They sat still, silent, their eyes locked, until her mobile beeped. She reflexively rummaged her handbag for it.
“Daj hu?” John asked.
Claire fumbled with the phone, took a cursory glance at it, rolled her eyes and switched it off. “Mog,” she said, shoving the phone back into her purse. “Kiv vip.”
John smiled. “Sti op te rojli xog, che?”
Claire nodded. “Sa dud feb kwar gi?”
“Jaxa washam gara gig. Loo pa xer ta?”
“Azi!” Claire answer and smiled in turn. “Ok vo zerg joj im!”
“Oh!” John felt himself blushing. “Zim su.” He tried to put up a smile but felt so self-conscious all he could produce was a weird grimace. Claire tried to stifle a laugh but couldn’t hold it back for long. Both burst into wild laughter.
“Jozz na,” John stuttered when he’d regained a semblance of composure.
“Ye gar mu gno!” Claire carried on, and winked to him. He was about to top that with a dumb joke when the waitress butted in, bringing the starters.
Desserts had been eaten and plates taken away. John was lying back in the armchair. He felt warm and tipsy. Blame the wine, he said to himself. He had fallen for that expensive bottle of French ruby Bordeaux. He didn’t regret it: every drop was magnificent. Now he was spinning a tumbler of brandy, while Claire sipped her mocha. He was trying to guess what she was thinking. She wasn’t easy to read, as she had kept a straight face all along the dinner.
“Grojna poti!” he said to the waitress as she glided past the table. She nodded, walked to the till, and turned back with the bill. No sooner was the sheet laid on the table that John lurched forward to bagsy it, only to find his hand land over Claire’s.
They looked at each other awkwardly, but their hands remained still. John suspected his cheeks were already ruddy, so no further blushing could happen. However, her cheeks had turned rosy, which, given her complexion, was probably the maximum she could reach, he thought. He smiled and slowly pulled his hand away, stroking hers.
“Sgrivej ka lo parblim, ra galip,” he said.
“Foz,” she answered, and they both reached for their credit cards.
The street was dingy and deserted. It was icy too, and both walked silently with their hands deeply buried into their pockets. John wished it were summer so he could’ve tried to grasp her hand. But no, it was June. They had to hurry along if they didn’t want to freeze up.
At last, they reached the entrance of her building.
“Gi,” Claire said. “Def ob sabarfi mebba!”
Claire’s face stood in the dark, so John guessed, rather than saw, a smile. “Paa sfidu!” he replied.
She fished the key out of her handbag and spun around. He watched her insert the key into the lock, unmoving, as if expecting something more. Her hand stopped midway, and she slowly turned back to face him. She stood there, waiting for him to break the hush.
“Zo… Zo…” he stuttered, “haska em vogri ib dera?” His face must’ve been crimson from shame. Besides, that formula was so trite. But he couldn’t think about anything else.
To his surprise, Claire laughed, a warm and clear laughter that chased all his doubts away. “Woggi?” she said. She opened the door and beckoned him after her.
Now, by some unknown miracle, she was sitting there, opposite him at the restaurant table, her face buried into the menu card, while John was fiddling with his fork.
The waitress walked to them. “Fa ghe teds zaphy?” she asked.
“Tso”, John replied, smiling. “Qtijka lo munk do ba, darcha zi.”
She scribbled on her notepad. “Fif?”
Claire handed the menu over. “Bi ka luga poti,” she replied. The waitress nodded and drifted away.
John looked straight to Claire. A hush fell. They sat still, silent, their eyes locked, until her mobile beeped. She reflexively rummaged her handbag for it.
“Daj hu?” John asked.
Claire fumbled with the phone, took a cursory glance at it, rolled her eyes and switched it off. “Mog,” she said, shoving the phone back into her purse. “Kiv vip.”
John smiled. “Sti op te rojli xog, che?”
Claire nodded. “Sa dud feb kwar gi?”
“Jaxa washam gara gig. Loo pa xer ta?”
“Azi!” Claire answer and smiled in turn. “Ok vo zerg joj im!”
“Oh!” John felt himself blushing. “Zim su.” He tried to put up a smile but felt so self-conscious all he could produce was a weird grimace. Claire tried to stifle a laugh but couldn’t hold it back for long. Both burst into wild laughter.
“Jozz na,” John stuttered when he’d regained a semblance of composure.
“Ye gar mu gno!” Claire carried on, and winked to him. He was about to top that with a dumb joke when the waitress butted in, bringing the starters.
Desserts had been eaten and plates taken away. John was lying back in the armchair. He felt warm and tipsy. Blame the wine, he said to himself. He had fallen for that expensive bottle of French ruby Bordeaux. He didn’t regret it: every drop was magnificent. Now he was spinning a tumbler of brandy, while Claire sipped her mocha. He was trying to guess what she was thinking. She wasn’t easy to read, as she had kept a straight face all along the dinner.
“Grojna poti!” he said to the waitress as she glided past the table. She nodded, walked to the till, and turned back with the bill. No sooner was the sheet laid on the table that John lurched forward to bagsy it, only to find his hand land over Claire’s.
They looked at each other awkwardly, but their hands remained still. John suspected his cheeks were already ruddy, so no further blushing could happen. However, her cheeks had turned rosy, which, given her complexion, was probably the maximum she could reach, he thought. He smiled and slowly pulled his hand away, stroking hers.
“Sgrivej ka lo parblim, ra galip,” he said.
“Foz,” she answered, and they both reached for their credit cards.
The street was dingy and deserted. It was icy too, and both walked silently with their hands deeply buried into their pockets. John wished it were summer so he could’ve tried to grasp her hand. But no, it was June. They had to hurry along if they didn’t want to freeze up.
At last, they reached the entrance of her building.
“Gi,” Claire said. “Def ob sabarfi mebba!”
Claire’s face stood in the dark, so John guessed, rather than saw, a smile. “Paa sfidu!” he replied.
She fished the key out of her handbag and spun around. He watched her insert the key into the lock, unmoving, as if expecting something more. Her hand stopped midway, and she slowly turned back to face him. She stood there, waiting for him to break the hush.
“Zo… Zo…” he stuttered, “haska em vogri ib dera?” His face must’ve been crimson from shame. Besides, that formula was so trite. But he couldn’t think about anything else.
To his surprise, Claire laughed, a warm and clear laughter that chased all his doubts away. “Woggi?” she said. She opened the door and beckoned him after her.
Fun:
I've got comments, of course. "she had kept a straight face all along the dinner" is an odd thing to say when they'd both been laughing uproariously just a couple paragraphs before. Also, I'm not sure about using of the word "along" in this context--"during", maybe?
Of course, it might be a dialect thing. I'm completely unfamiliar with the verb "bagsy", for instance, when it comes to grabbing the bill at dinner.
And it seems to me that, in order to comply with the linguistic strictures laid out herein, the title should be in quotes, shouldn't it? :)
Mike
I've got comments, of course. "she had kept a straight face all along the dinner" is an odd thing to say when they'd both been laughing uproariously just a couple paragraphs before. Also, I'm not sure about using of the word "along" in this context--"during", maybe?
Of course, it might be a dialect thing. I'm completely unfamiliar with the verb "bagsy", for instance, when it comes to grabbing the bill at dinner.
And it seems to me that, in order to comply with the linguistic strictures laid out herein, the title should be in quotes, shouldn't it? :)
Mike
I have a rule of thumb which, like all rules of thumb, can sometimes be wrong, but which I think is right often enough to make it worth having around. That rule is: the reward your reader gets for figuring out your obtuseness should be proportional to how in-your-face the obtuseness is. So for example, as a reader I don't expect (or at least, don't need) a great revelation or brilliant easter egg to accompany my figuring out some tangential writing on an ancient wall you're describing. But when I'm parsing the main dialogue of a story, and when you've deliberately rendered it like this, I expect... well, to be rewarded.
And here, I don't feel like I am. I could be mistaken, or I could just be being a sourpuss, but this feels like it's opaque for the sake of opaquicity. I don't feel like the time I spent parsing any of this was rewarded, you get me? And that's not a great feeling for a reader to have.
Anyway, I'll repeat that this might be a personal reaction, and I encourage you to get more feedback before taking it entirely to heart. But for what it's worth, I was a little disappointed that you put me through some mental juggling, and it didn't seem to earn me anything.
And here, I don't feel like I am. I could be mistaken, or I could just be being a sourpuss, but this feels like it's opaque for the sake of opaquicity. I don't feel like the time I spent parsing any of this was rewarded, you get me? And that's not a great feeling for a reader to have.
Anyway, I'll repeat that this might be a personal reaction, and I encourage you to get more feedback before taking it entirely to heart. But for what it's worth, I was a little disappointed that you put me through some mental juggling, and it didn't seem to earn me anything.