Raven's Flight

by Chrys Cymri - BooksGoSocial Fantasy P

  “What happened to all the gentlemen?” I had asked my brother-in-law Patrick recently. It seemed like when I moved back to the U.S. from Spain a few years ago, they had all disappeared.

  “Men have been emasculated,” Patrick had explained. “They feel resentful. I think that’s why they refuse to give up their seats for women anymore.”

  I guess that’s why I like Latin men. They treat you like a woman, make you feel that you’re a woman.

  Well, I certainly felt like a woman. And being a feminist, being empowered, doesn’t mean that I can’t enjoy when a man makes me feel like a woman.

  I was thinking about all of this as I exited the metro at Crystal City. I got a few stares from men on the metro today. I was wearing a black suit and a sleeveless emerald green blouse. The suit was tailored. I was forever having to buy clothes that fit my hips, then having them taken in everywhere else.

  I was usually overdressed for the office. There was no official dress code in the company, but I tended to dress up. Some people wore jeans, but most men wore dockers and either button-down shirts or polo shirts, and most women wore business casual skirts and pants.

  Always dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

  I was a realist and I didn’t really expect to be running this shop some day. However, if I had to stay here after law school, I hoped to at least have a chance at snagging a manager job.

  The possibility of staying here was also looking more and more likely every day.

  I wore my hair straight today, partially held out of my face with a clip. My hair was getting a bit too long.

  The Crystal City area had an underground shopping center with restaurants, coffee shops and stores. Many people who worked in that area could get to their jobs using the underground walkway, not ever having to go outside. That was terrific during the winter. DC was hot and humid in the summer, but could also get really cold during the wintertime.

  I took the underground walkway now to avoid the humidity. There was nothing worse than arriving to work already sweaty. And I would have to wear these clothes until at least 9:30 p.m. when I got home after class.

  After leaving the underground tunnel, I walked through an above-ground, glass-encased walkway. I was hurrying a little, at the end of my walk, half-walking and half-dancing salsa (still listening to my music) and was about to turn left to take the elevator up to my office, when I ran face-to-face into who I referred to as The Turkish Guy.

  “Hi!” he said. I didn’t really know him, I just knew who he was. He worked for another company in the building. I don’t remember what he did exactly. I also didn’t remember his name, although he had told me at some point. I had been running into him occasionally for the past couple of months. He kept trying to ask me out, but I kept making excuses/ignoring him/pretending that I had somewhere urgent to be, etc. The bad news was that he knew where I worked. The good news was that I had been doing a pretty good job of avoiding him, until now, apparently.

  I half-smiled, because I really had no other choice but to acknowledge him. I slowed down my stride a bit but didn’t stop walking.

  “How are you?” he asked me, smiling a broad smile.

  “Well. I—uh, have to get to work. See you later.” I got to the elevators.

  He followed me there.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while,” he said.

  Yes, that’s on purpose, I thought, but didn’t say anything. I only left my office at lunch to rush to the gym, and I acted like I had blinders on.

  “Are you busy this weekend?” he asked as I pushed the up button to call the elevator, any elevator.

  “Yes,” I told him. That was not really a lie. I did have plans. I planned to see my sister on Sunday and to study for the rest of the weekend.

  The elevator opened a few seconds later. He still had time to say, “Maybe coffee after work?”

  “I have class every day after work,” I told him, getting into the elevator. I half-expected him to follow me inside. I was relieved when he didn’t.

  “See you later,” I told him as the elevator doors closed. I had no intention of seeing him later, but I said something to talk over whatever else he may have said before I could get away from him.

  I exhaled. That had been close. Would I have to come right out and tell him that I wasn’t interested in dating him? It may be harsh but he was always so direct. I wasn’t sure what else to do.

  My life was a bit depressing, I realized. Despite what my mother thought, I really did not know anyone currently that I would consider dating. I started thinking about the men I knew. If Eric were ten years older and a little more mature, I might consider dating him. I wasn’t interested in dating Josh. Dinesh had a girlfriend, but we were buddies. It was difficult to imagine dating him.

  There was no one else.

  Then I suddenly thought of that Arab guy who had sat next to me in class last night. Oh, who the hell was I kidding? He was eye candy, nothing more. I was 100 percent certain he and I would have nothing in common. Maybe it would work out if we never spoke. I smiled. What a “relationship” that would be. Well, for some guys that’s probably their dream relationship, having sex and never having to say anything.

  That sounded like most of my hook-ups.

  I exited the elevator and walked to my office. I swiped my card on the sensor and opened the door.

  I walked past the receptionist’s desk to my cube, saying hi to the receptionist on the way.

  The office was a cube environment. I had a larger cube than most of the other translators, because I was a Senior Translator, and had to review others’ work. Management liked me because I did high-quality work that was timely. Consequently, I was in high demand and sought after by the clients my company worked for. But most of the other translators didn’t like me because I was highly detailed-oriented and critical of their work.

  I tried being nice, because I really wanted the opportunity to advance in the company if I stayed there. To do that, I needed to be diplomatic. However, frequently the other translators pushed me too far and I ended up having to be firm, sounding like a borderline jerk. If I told them what I really thought, then I would sound like a downright jackass.

  Foreign-language translation is a highly subjective job. There were usually many different ways to convey the same meanings in the text. I spent an inordinate amount of time arguing with the other translators about syntax, diction and semantic ranges. Most people would think it was an absolute snorefest, but I was a total nerd about linguistics.

  I got to my cube and dropped my backpack under my desk. I took out some snacks and left them on my desk. I took my lunch and went to the kitchen to put it in the fridge.

  In the kitchen I ran into Abdul, one of the many foreign men I worked with. I didn’t work directly with him, since I didn’t translate Arabic, but we frequently engaged in small talk.

  “Hi, Isabel,” Abdul said. I couldn’t help but notice that he was staring at me. In fact, he moved his eyes from my feet all the way up to my face. “You look very nice today.”

  “Thank you.” Abdul was nice, but he was always sneaking looks at me, like he knew that he shouldn’t. Other men in the office were more blatant. In fact, sometimes I thought that the entire office was one complaint away from having to deal with a sexual harrassment charge.

  Looking is free, I guess. I checked men out too, but not so much at work. In my opinion, there weren’t any men at work worth checking out, anyway.

  I went back to my desk, logged on and checked my emails. I had an employment contract to finish for today, from Spanish to English. It had to be done by the end of today but I had made good progress, so I wasn’t too worried.

  I also had an email from Tim, a new translator. He had worked as a missionary or volunteer or something in South America before coming to work for the company, and his spoken and written Spanish was good. I had doubts about his skills as a translator, though. He wanted to talk to me about my revisions to his work.


  That’s not a good sign. He’s going to argue with me.

  I emailed him back.

  I have a project to finish this morning but we can meet this afternoon, say around 2:30 p.m. in my cube. Thanks, Isabel.

  I wasn’t looking forward to it but it wouldn’t be the first time.

  I liked my job, but I didn’t always like dealing with the people here. In fact, one of the things I really liked about being a translator was that it was a solitary job. It didn’t require a whole lot of teamwork. In high school, I had absolutely hated doing group projects, since that meant that I ended up doing all of the work because I didn’t want to get a bad grade.

  Undergraduate was different, since most of the people there were overachievers. Law school was like that too, but thankfully didn’t require much group work. I could be my own solitary self and I loved that.

  That morning I finished the contract translation, double-checking and then triple-checking it. As I was writing an email to send it to my boss, Miguel, another translator, passed by my desk.

  Miguel was from Mexico. He was nice enough, but a little intense.

  I looked up and met his eye, not really meaning to. I half-smiled in acknowledgement. I didn’t like him or dislike him, but I considered it rude to fail to acknowledge someone’s presence. That’s how I was raised.

  “Hi, Isabel,” Miguel said as he stopped and leaned against the outside of my cubicle. Miguel was one of the younger guys (by younger I meant about my age), and he was single. It was a disastrous combination in my mind because that meant he saw me as potentially someone to date. He was actually pretty good-looking, but he wasn’t my type and, in any case, I didn’t want to date or hook up with anyone I worked with. The last thing I needed was to have a reputation at work as the promiscuous Spanish girl.

  Great. Now he’s going to chat. Wait, did he just look at my cleavage?

  Most of the people here knew that I didn’t chat much. I didn’t have any real friends here, except for one, another Spanish translator from Murcia, Spain.

  “Hi,” I said back.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Well,” I said.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  Yeah, I bet you are. I had the feeling that half the guys in here wanted to sleep with me, and the other half saw me as competition for promotions. He probably thought both things.

  “Nothing interesting, the usual stuff.”

  “Sooo,” he started.

  Oh, God, don’t ask me out, you fool. He had never asked me out before, but I guess there was a first time for everything.

  “Some of us are going to dinner on Friday.”

  I said nothing, since he had not asked a question. I never went to dinner or happy hour or anything else with my coworkers. I didn’t see the point, really. I was never happy enough for “happy hour,” anyway. And I certainly didn’t want to be around a bunch of my drunk male coworkers.

  “Are you interested in coming?” he asked me.

  “Thanks, but I have plans,” I lied. I had no plans Friday night, other than possibly painting my nails, going to the shooting range and/or watching old Westerns.

  “What are you doing?” he asked then. Nosy, I thought.

  “I’m having dinner with friends from law school.”

  “Well, then you can bring them!”

  God, he was persistent. “I don’t think I can. We have a reservation, I think.” I needed to shut this down. “Thank you, though.” I turned back to my computer screen. “Sorry, I have to send this project. I’ll talk to you later.”

  He left and I relaxed a little bit. I planned on keeping my head down for the rest of the day.

  At 12:00 I grabbed my bag and walked over to the gym, which was next door to my office. My midday workouts were sacred. I never ate lunch out with people because I didn’t want to miss them. It was a chance to disconnect and it also energized me for my nighttime classes.

  I got on the treadmill and walked for a couple of minutes. Then I cranked it up and started running. Techno music blared in my ears. I imagined I was on a long, straight path and gunned it. It felt great.

  Showered, hair washed and blowdried, I was back in the office. I left my gym bag at my desk.

  I walked into the kitchen to get my lunch out of the fridge and nuke it.

  The kitchen had two refrigerators, two microwaves and two round tables, and several people ate their lunch in there every day. I never did.

  I could hear my coworkers before I even got to the kitchen. Some were chatting in English and others in rapid Arabic.

  When I walked into the kitchen, the chatter stopped immediately. I had the cold realization that they had been talking about me. I wouldn’t have known if they hadn’t stopped talking since I didn’t speak Arabic, and I hadn’t been paying attention to what the English speakers were talking about.

  I didn’t look at them or greet them, and got my lunch out of the fridge.

  I hated having to nuke my lunch with them there, because I had to stand there, waiting, for about two minutes, counting down until I could leave.

  “Well, hello to you too,” one of them said, obviously annoyed that I hadn’t greeted them when I walked in.

  I turned around, with a smile plastered on my face. “Hi,” I said. The more I talked, the more they would talk to me and ask me questions I didn’t care to answer.

  “So, do you have a boyfriend yet?”

  Like that question.

  I didn’t like to lie, mostly because the ruse would be difficult to maintain, but I also didn’t like to discuss my personal life with them.

  “Why do you ask?”

  The guy who had asked me smiled. His eyes twinkled a little.

  “Just wondering. How can a girl like you not have a boyfriend?”

  “Yeah, so it’s really not—”

  “Isabel!!!!! Where have you been?! No te he visto en todo el dia.”

  Thank God! It was Peter, my only true friend here. He had walked in with a flourish. Of course, it was about time for his afternoon coffee.

  Peter McBride was Spanish, but you certainly wouldn’t know that by his name. He had an American father, of Irish descent and former U.S. military, and a Spanish mother. He had been born in the U.S., but his family moved back to Spain when he was a toddler. He spoke English with a Murcian accent; I loved that. The Castilian accent made me feel so nostalgic.

  Peter was about forty-five years old. He was married to a Spanish woman, and they had a gaggle of kids. I had been over to their house to watch soccer games. He was a Madrid fan and I was a Barcelona fan, but there was no ill will between us.

  He wasn’t super-tall, about 5'10". His hair was curly and almost all gray. He looked good with gray hair. Of course, men with gray hair were distinguished and mature. Women with gray hair were old. What a double standard.

  Peter and I had started at the company the same week. When he introduced himself in English, I couldn’t reconcile his name with his accent. It was a mystery to me. I didn’t speak English with a Spanish accent, so he hadn’t made the connection that I was Spanish, despite my name.

  Later that day, I had been talking to someone else in Spanish. Afterward, Peter had stopped by my desk.

  “Where in Spain are you from?” he had asked me.

  “How do you know I’m from Spain?” I had retorted.

  “Just for the couple of words I heard you say,” he had answered in his heavy accent, smiling broadly.

  “Pues soy de Barcelona.” It wasn’t a complete truth.

  “Uuuuyyy, catalana,” he had mused.

  Then we had exchanged family histories.

  Peter was a really good guy. He was like a beacon of light to me at the moment.

  As he stepped near the counter to prepare his coffee, I moved closer to him.

  “Tio, me has salvado la vida ahora mismo.” Then, lowering my voice, “I owe you for getting me out of that convers
ation.”

  “Porque? Are these people bothering you again?” he asked in a teasing manner.

  “No, just asking me the same stuff they always do.” I paused. “Not to mention, they shut up as soon as I walked in the room,” I whispered.

  “Ah,” he answered.

  “I think I’m going to learn Spanish,” someone was saying to the others at the table. I ignored him.

  Go ahead. Make my day, punk.

  Peter and I continued chatting.

  “Como estas?” he asked me.

  “Bien,” I answered without enthusiasm.

  “Y como van las clases?”

  “Class just started,” I told him. “Pero de momento, bien.”

  My food was ready. I said goodbye to Peter and left, ignoring the others.

  2:30 finally came around and I had to meet with Tim. As I had expected, it didn’t go that well.

  He was at my cube right on time.

  “Have a seat,” I told him as politely as I could. I motioned to the extra chair in my cube.

  Tim got right to the point.

  “Isabel, I don’t agree with some of your comments.”

  This does not bode well, I groaned inwardly.

  “OK.” I paused to collect my thoughts. I had printed out his contract translation and my revisions and I looked at the paper in front of me. “Which ones do you have questions about?”

  “Well, first, you marked this wrong and it’s not wrong.” He pointed to his version and I looked at mine.

  “Everyday,” I read. “Yes, it should be two words, like I said. ‘Every day.’ Here it’s a noun.”

  “But it’s spelled as one word in the dictionary.”

  “Yes, as an adjective. As in, everyday objects. As an adjective, it’s one word. As a noun, it’s two words.”

  “But it’s in the dictionary,” Tim insisted.

  You’re not listening, I thought. Why was I surprised? This is how many people his age converse. They wait nervously until you shut your mouth, then start spouting off, without even registering what you said. I was starting to lose my patience but I kept calm. I took my English-language dictionary from my desk and opened it.