Last-Minute Love (Year of the Chick series)

by Moondi, Romi

  ***

  I sat alone at the table, dressed in a pink and silver saree that was blinding to the eye. My matching bangles, medium-sized chandelier earrings (in accordance with the Indian girl earring code) and long waves of hair completed the look. I was bored as hell and fiddling with my phone, not wanting to bother Erik who was at a concert. He was still just a guy I talked to for addictive spans of time, and there was no “sext”ual healing of any kind in our messages. Even still my conscience, if I listened to it, told me I was guilty of trespassing. My response was very typical of someone who navigates the dating jungle, where it’s hard enough to find someone you can even have a decent conversation with: I told my conscience to shut the hell up.

  A moment later an army of Indians arrived at the table I’d been holding, each of them carrying plates full of food. Tandoori fish, chicken tikka, aloo (or potato) tikka, vegetable pakoras, a spiced cold yogurt soup…and these were just the appetizers.

  The enthusiastic foodies included my father, my mother, my brother Sonny, my sister Neema and her husband Anil. My sister was wearing a green and black saree over her tall and thin frame. I was still crossing my fingers that marriage would make her fat, but at the three-month mark I had yet to see an expansion. Her husband Anil when you saw him up close wasn’t a bad-looking dude, with his sharp narrow eyes and not-huge nose. Like most Indian dudes though, he was one of those guys who had hair here, there, and everywhere.

  As they all took their seats the devouring began.

  Neema didn’t waste any time, talking at me loudly between mouthfuls. “Did you watch my purse while I was gone?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well I was right here, dumbass.”

  She grabbed a pakora from a surplus plate of food (surplus plates of food were a must at these functions) and continued gorging.

  Anil gestured to the plate. “Romi, you should eat before Sonny takes it all.” He chuckled to himself at his lame joke, and I applauded his attempt at breaking our sibling firewall.

  But you’re still not one of us yet.

  Just then, two plump old ladies in pastel sarees shuffled to our table. That was the thing about wearing a saree a.k.a. a piece of endless fabric expertly wrapped so it didn’t fall: you had to shuffle around like a penguin.

  Along with the old ladies’ fat rolls hanging out from their bare-skinned sides (old ladies for some reason always chose the bare-skinned way to pin a saree), their judging stares could be seen from a mile away.

  “Ranjit!” they both said in unison. They quickly sandwiched my mother in a hug, as the rest of the table paid little attention to their appearance. Once settled into their seats, they didn’t waste a second before scowling at the stage, where the engaged couple sat on an opulent-looking love seat.

  “He’s a doctor and he’s going to marry HER?”Plump lady number-one in the pastel blue clucked her tongue.

  My mother snickered. “And she’s wearing red just for an engagement? This generation…” She shook her head disapprovingly.

  “No style sense,” added the second plump lady in the pastel purple.

  Plump lady number-one turned around and pointed a finger at me accusingly. “When is THIS ONE getting married?”

  “Fuck!” I whispered under my breath.

  Plump lady number-two waved her hand as if to flag me down. “Do you know boys your age want a girl twenty-five or less? And you? Almost thirty? A-hay!” She shook her head in despair.

  This insulting ageist comment was nothing new to me, but what I realized in that moment for the first time ever, was that Indian grown-ups always called unmarried adults “girl” and “boy.” As if that made any sense? When was the last time a thirty-year-old man was referred to as a boy outside of Indian culture? That didn’t mean there weren’t some man-boys out there in the sense of maturity deficiencies, but in Indian world the terms “boy” and “girl” were used exclusively for unmarried specimens. It was probably a way to keep believing unwed adults were virgins.

  Whatever.

  My private contemplation was interrupted by my father’s glare, his response to this whole conversation. My sister meanwhile had been pointing and laughing at me. Thanks. My mother was doing the usual, which was smiling through gritted teeth, and planning to yell at me later.

  I grabbed a pakora and stuffed it in my mouth.

  More chewing less talking...

  ***

  About an hour later, the dance floor was filled with a kaleidoscope of colour, as synchronized arms screwed invisible light bulbs in this classic Indian dance.

  It was a sight to behold.

  Meanwhile back at our table, my mother and the plump old ladies were quietly gossiping, as I tried not to smile while reading Erik’s unexpected message. He was out watching an up-and-coming indie band play, and his description of the packed venue in the East Village was vivid. His enthusiasm dripped through his words and I could feel it too. It was great to hear about something he really enjoyed, as it helped me feel a little bit closer to this man...this man I could never have.

  Godammit!

  Suddenly a plump old lady gasped.

  “Eh! Harpreet!” cried out plump old lady number-two.

  A skinny twenty-something girl in a pearly pink vision of a saree glided over.

  “Auntie-ji!’ exclaimed the girl. She hugged each plump old lady one at a time, with the fakest of all smiles plastered across her face. When she looked at me her manufactured grin fizzled out. “Hey,” she said.

  I nodded. “Hey.”

  My mother and the ladies admired Harpreet’s youth and beauty through a series of “oohs” and approving head nods.

  “See Romi?” said plump old lady number-one, pointing at the angelic wonder. “She’s only twenty-four.” She pinched Harpreet’s cheek and smiled. “She will find a nice boy!” She turned to Harpreet and seemed serious. “By next year, ya?”

  Harpreet nodded “yes” with particular innocence.

  All I could do was pray for her to trip and fall into a plate of pakoras...

  ***

  The table was full of my family again, who somehow had the capacity to eat a huge dinner. In between mouthfuls, my mother peeked underneath the table and grimaced, then leaned towards my shoulder and frowned.

  “My feet hurt,” she whispered. “Go get my other shoes from the car.”

  I sighed dramatically and slowly rose from my chair.

  Without my coat, I shuffled through the foyer as penguin-like as ever. I pulled the brass handle of one of the big wooden double doors, and when it opened I was slapped with a blast of cold air.

  Shit!

  I pulled my saree a few inches above my feet so I could run, and quickly hauled ass to our minivan. On my way I heard some giggling and slowed down. It was hard to see in the darkness, but eventually I saw a chunk of pearl-coloured saree in the hand of a groping guy. When I looked closer I identified Harpreet, who was having a serious make-out session with a waiter from the banquet hall.

  Behind a dumpster.

  Classy.

  Suddenly Harpreet noticed me, but instead of freaking out from this potential blackmail scenario, she smiled. And then continued making out.

  I shook my head as I continued my trek to the minivan.

  Angelic virgin waiting for an arranged marriage? I don’t think so…

  ***

  A few days after the engagement party of boredom and gluttony, I was scoping out the scene at work, to see if I could have a little “me time.” My man-heel absentee boss was nowhere in sight, and all my work (and his work too) was caught up for the day.

  I looked behind me.

  Then to my sides.

  Then behind me again.

  Certain that no one was approaching, I quietly hummed to myself, with a blank Word document staring me in the face. I typed in some random words: “Happiness. Free. Dreams. Forget. Fades. Darkness.”

  Hmm...

  This was my first attempt at writing a song, and I really didn’t have
a clue.

  I closed my eyes and thought about my favourite songs. The ones I remembered usually told a detailed story, not just with words but emotion. It occurred to me then that I’d never written anything serious in my life. Instead I’d built a portfolio on sarcasm and crazy one-liners. Erik really didn’t know what he was asking of me.

  I cracked my knuckles and typed in another word: “Fart.”

  This is gonna be ugly...

  ***

  In bed early the next night, with my parents a floor below watching their favourite Indian program (an Indian rip-off of the American show “Top Chef”), I lay under the covers in the darkness. My face was lit by the screen of my phone, and it illuminated the grin on my face.

  “So you’re ACTUALLY turning it into a song?” I said.

  “Of course,” said Erik.

  “But not out of pity, right? Because if my lyrics are pathetic you don’t have to make a song out of it.” Even though I’d managed to leave the word “fart” out of my lyrics, I was very unsure about the final product.

  “Romi, making a song is like making a cake. If the ingredients are all wrong---”

  “You’ll poison everybody at your kid’s birthday party?”

  He laughed. “I was going to say it won’t taste good, which means I wouldn’t make a song if the lyrics didn’t work. But yes, poisoned children would be a bad thing.”

  “All the mothers would freak out…”

  “They would call their lawyers…” he added.

  “You’d get sentenced to community service at minimum…”

  “And thirty years in solitary at the max,” he concluded.

  I laughed. “It’s strange talking to a brain as disturbed as mine.”

  “So I am just a brain to you?”

  I smiled. “A brain with nice dimples.”

  “Romi, I feel like I knew you in another life. I really do.”

  I gasped. “Was it an Ancient Egyptian life?”

  “Sure.”

  “Was I Cleopatra, and you were my Alexandrian slave boy slash lover?”

  “Only if I get to wear the linen loin cloth. Because cotton or polyester in that heat would be unbearable.”

  I laughed. “Fine, we will get you some linen.”

  He sighed into the phone. “Romi, can we meet again?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The first snow fell on a mid-November’s night, which meant boring people finally had something to talk about, and people with cars suddenly forgot how to drive. I’m guessing thirty collisions tonight in the Greater Toronto Area.

  A slushy drive home was not my immediate concern, with Laura and me safe inside our usual restaurant, in the heart of Toronto’s glitzy Yorkville. We still couldn’t afford a proper dinner at this celebrity hot spot, so drinks and greasy appetizers would do. On the bright side I’d cashed my first royalty cheque the day before, and even though it was nowhere near the amount I’d need to start a brand new life in Paris (as if), it would at least buy November’s worth of alcohol.

  I inhaled the first spring roll and washed it down my gullet with some vodka and Diet Coke (wine would’ve been preferable, but in washing-food-down-gullet scenarios cocktails were best).

  I swallowed hard and looked around the dining room. “One of these days Ryan Gosling’s gonna be here. He’ll be all by himself having dinner, just dying for me to come over...”

  Laura rolled her eyes. “You better videotape that when it happens.”

  I held my half-empty glass to the light. “You know, zero-calorie Coke and carb-free vodka totally negate the spring roll factor.”

  Laura nodded. “This is still my favourite drink despite your white wine kick. I could have it for breakfast, lunch and dinner...”

  “Whoa, alcoholic much?”

  “That’s what Dave’s been doing to me. He’s driving me to alcoholism!” She let out an exasperated sigh.

  “You’re not letting that engagement stuff get to you again, are you?”

  She frowned. “Do you know he changes the subject if I even bring it up? He actually told me to ‘live in the moment.’ Who says stuff like that?”

  “I don’t know…people who want to appreciate what they have while they have it?” I immediately thought of Erik.

  “The only people who live in the moment are children and homeless people, dammit!” She tugged at one of her curls in frustration as I shook my head in amazement.

  “What are you talking about? I think you’ve lost it.”

  She swigged the rest of her drink. “Let’s talk about something else. Like tell me more about this supposed reunion with Erik.” She looked skeptical.

  “Well it’s more like an official reunion,” I said, trying hard to contain my grin. “I booked it last night. Which means…I’ll be seeing him again in three weeks!” I suddenly felt a shiver down my back.

  “You got your own hotel room, right?”

  “Of course! He’s so sweet he insisted on paying.” I smiled dreamily, but the smile quickly turned into a frown. “Wait, does that mean I’m his prostitute?”

  “That’s the part I’m confused about,” said Laura, sounding more and more pessimistic by the second. “He held your hand for three seconds six months ago. And now you’re hopping on a plane for a weekend hook-up? And let’s not forget he has a girlfriend…”

  I suddenly resembled and also felt like a confused chimpanzee. “But it isn’t like that!”

  Laura crossed her arms. “How is it then?”

  “We just never talked about it like that. We mostly talk about music and dorky shit like ancient history.”

  “So you’re a couple of nerdy friends?”

  I suddenly realized that Laura could make a career out of being a devil’s advocate.

  “Well we flirt a lot too,” I said, sounding suddenly defensive. “And I’ve written him lyrics. He’s even making a song out of them!”

  Laura sighed. “Just be smart, okay? He’s not going to break up with his girlfriend because of a weekend tourist. I’m telling you this guy has taken ‘homesick’ to a whole new selfish level.”

  I nodded casually, trying to appear and also feel as nonchalant as ever. I took a long sip of my cocktail and swallowed hard. “Trust me I know this is temporary. And please, I need a long-distance boyfriend who isn’t actually my boyfriend like I need genital warts.”

  Laura scrunched her nose in disgust.

  I went for another sip, but instead started chewing on my straw, my eyes quickly filling up with worry. “But Laura…what if I go all the way over there, and nothing even happens at all?”

  ***

  With less than two weeks left until my trip to see Erik, the office was getting crazier all the time. Today I’d worked through lunch so I could sneak away by five, and now I sped through the Union Station concourse at the rush-hour pace. As was always the case, bags were flung without care, and naïve slow-movers were pushed around like prisoners in a pinball machine.

  I suddenly transitioned from one group to the other, as my lightning pace slowed to a crawl. I was so overcome with sudden dizziness, that I could barely remember where I was. My balance remained unsteady for several seconds, as people elbowed past without mercy.

  ***

  A few days later, after doing all the tests and waiting for a diagnosis, I finally received a call to see the doctor.

  I sat on one of those uncomfortable doctor’s office beds, with the sterilized paper sheet making all kinds of noise. My hair was askew, my face had a yellowed hue, and I was wearing my “at home” hooded sweatshirt, the one with the tea stains all down the front (I had yet to learn how to drink tea in bed while reading). I looked like nothing less than a bag of shit, and for days I’d never felt so tired in my entire life.

  I leaned against the wall in exhaustion, and in doing so ripped the paper sheet beneath me. Oops. As I tried my best to straighten it out, I noticed a poster for a new kind of birth control. The diagram clearly showed how a ring would be inserted
in the subject’s vagina, where it would then remain lodged for three weeks solid. How curious.

  A second later the door opened and the doctor waddled in. She was a short old lady in her sixties, with a poorly-permed wad of hair tied back in a yellow scrunchie. That was barely her greatest offense, when compared to her bright pink lipstick. She also had a thick Middle-Eastern accent, not to mention she was probably senile. I need to stop picking doctors because they’re five minutes away from my house.

  She took a seat on a wheeled leather stool and smiled at me.

  “So…what brought you here today, Ms. Narindra?”

  I sighed. “You called ME, remember? The test results?”

  “Oh!” It was like a light-bulb had just gone off in her senile head. Fascinating to watch. She spun around in her wheeled leather stool, spun again because she didn’t have enough momentum the first time, and finally grabbed a folder from behind her.

  At last she spun back around to me, almost out of breath this final time. Some seconds passed as she read the test results. A moment later the broad brush of bright pink lipstick cracked as she pursed her lips.

  “Oh….she said. “Mmhmm…”

  Wanna let me in on the little secret?

  I clasped my hands together tightly, waiting for the deadly diagnosis.

  “So why do I have no energy?” I finally asked, worried that the doctor had forgotten why she was here.

  “You, my dear, have a kidney infection!”

  I frowned, looked away, and began to blush all at once. I didn’t know what kind of people contracted kidney infections, or what exactly it meant, but to me it sounded just as bad as being told I had crabs.