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Ywéranth does not like parties. She hates the ugly blending of so many voices, the rancid smell and taste of this new world's alcohol, the smell of bad food and hormones and vomit mixing in the air to create a truly awful stench. Ywéranth has been to three parties in her life. She was invited by Ahmed's nephew each time and each time she ended up leaving early and navigating the maze of streets all by herself. Even after so many months in this world, she still has trouble finding her way around.
Ahmed's nephew asked her to another party. She told him no. She's gotten over the crush she had on him. It gave her a little thrill, saying "No," to someone instead of simply shaking her head from side to side. She loves that word, "No." She always stands a little straighter as she says it.
But Ahmed's nephew did not understand her when she told him no. He's asked her three more times, and although she's continued to turn him down, he keeps coming back. Ywéranth hopes he doesn't know where Randy's office is, because it's the one place she knows she can avoid him.
Randy doesn't like Ahmed's nephew much. He thinks Tom Ouazanni is arrogant, and pays people money to do his schoolwork for him. Ywéranth still doesn't understand money, but she knows what arrogance is. She agrees with Randy. Tom needs to become more humble.
"He always talk me, talk me, talk me, talk me! All time, always, talk me! He see me and he ask-talk me go party. I want the party? No, I don't want this party. He see me next and talk party more time. I hate him."
Randy sighs and nods. "I hear ya. Y'know, Mr. Ouazanni'd kick his ass if I asked nicely. Want me to put in a bad word, tell him his nephew's harassing you?"
"Harsarsing?"
"Harassing. To harass is to annoy, to keep doing something over and over when someone tells you to stop. Tom is harassing you."
"Yes! He hasarss me all this time, he annoy me! You talk Ahmed, he talk Tom and Tom stop?"
Randy nods again, more emphatically this time. "Yeah. I'll call him when we're done here."
"Thank you."
-
"I going! Done at you, done whole time later! Goodbye!"
Ywéranth has been to five parties, but she's only stormed out of one. Tom stares at her from the safety of the brother-club building, while she stands in the street soaking up rain as it pours down around her. For once, he doesn't know what to say.
He'll never get the chance to say anything to her ever again. Ywéranth will make sure of that. She'll use her shine-iron knife if she has to. She's had enough hasarsment to last her another seven thousand years.
The walk back to the big healers'-building is long and confusing, with many twists and turns that would have turned Ywéranth completely around even while sober. Now, with two or three of those foul-tasting drinks resting in her belly, the route is just impossible. She's never seen these buildings before. Nothing looks the way it should, with so much water in the air. It distorts her vision and plays tricks on her, making colors change and lights flicker when they shouldn't. She recognizes nothing here, not even herself.
She's alone on this street. There are buildings on either side, but she doesn't know which ones they are. The rain is coming down harder now, although a minute ago that would have seemed impossible. Her clothing is thoroughly soaked, just as if she'd jumped into the nearby lake and gone for a swim. Ywéranth hates being wet like this. It reminds her of the Discovery, the Awakening. Being reborn into a totally unfamiliar world, dragged unwillingly through a ferocious flood and deposited neatly on a riverbank in just the right place for some science-men to find her. It freshens memories she would rather leave dried up, preserved on the shelves of her mind.
This is the door to Randy's work-building. The chipped paint beckons to her, draws her in. A hand that belonged to her just a second ago reaches out and turns the slippery brass doorknob of its own accord, and she steps inside.
She's inside, out of the rain, so everything should look normal, but the lights are still too bright and the wallpaper hurts her eyes with its twisting red and purple lines. Over, under, over under; it goes on like this all the way down the corridor. Ywéranth follows the sickening thread of color until she reaches the stairs, which she takes two at a time as she hurries up to Randy's office on the third floor.
-
Randy works late on Fridays. It's a habit left over from his grad student days, when Thursday was matinee day at the theater downtown and the matinee was all he could afford. So, to make up for the work he shelved on Thursdays to go see a movie, he started staying later and later on Fridays. Simple. He hasn't been to a movie theater in years and he still does this. It's purely habit these days.
It has nothing to do with Ywéranth's preference for late-night chats on Fridays. He's trying to work, for fuck's sake; why would he welcome a distraction like that? Doesn't make sense. He still lets her into his office every time, though. Like now.
She's soaking wet, dripping rainwater all over Randy's new-ish Turkish rug. Makes sense; it's raining out. Coming down pretty hard, actually. Maybe he should've brought an umbrella to work today.
Ywéranth shivers in the doorway, clearly unwilling to come in any further for fear of getting water on something besides the rug. The leather couch, for instance. God, why did he have to pick the leather couch? Randy stands up from his very dry desk and ushers her inside, couch be damned. She whispers a thank you in her language, and Randy replies in English. "Welcome." Welcome to my office, kid. How can I help you?
As if he just spoke aloud, Ywéranth forces out, "Do I become warm?" Can I get warmed up? Randy translates for himself. He quickly nods. Stupid, stupid. Just sitting on the couch won't do jack shit for her. He's certain he's got an afghan squirreled away in one of the cabinets, just gotta find it... Aha! Bottom left drawer of the corner filing cabinet. A present leftover from his last 'graduation,' gifted to him by his ex-wife's mother. Randy pulls out a surprisingly intact woolen blanket, decorated with bright red roses. It's not the warmest, given the amount of holes inherent in this sort of knitting pattern, but it's better than nothing.
Ywéranth lets him drape it around her shoulders and pull it snug without any protest. She smiles at him after he's patted her on the shoulder and sat down next to her. Randy loves her smile. It erases the weight of thousands of years from her face, makes her look as carefree as any other college student.
"Why're you out so late?" Randy asks her. He keeps the words simple, tries to speak clearly. This is technically a tutoring session.
Ywéranth scowls. "Thomas talk party early, say good party go to." Ah, Tom Ouazanni. The bane of Randy's fucking existence for two weeks, at least until he dropped Translation 101 and completely changed his major. Randy was secretly very thankful to be rid of him.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah! Party is suck ," Ywéranth spits, making a face at the memory. "Bad. I hate the party. Never go party one more time."
"I hear you."
She gives him a look. "Yes, you hear me," she says, again with that smile. Randy smiles back at her.
"So, no more parties?"
"No!"
"You sure? What about the cheese platters?" As he says this, Randy stifles a snort. He'll eat his own sunglasses if Tom Ouazanni has ever taken a girl to a party with cheese platters.
"Cheese?"
Randy uses his fingers to mimic big, rounded ears and makes a squeaking noise. "Eep, eep! You know, the food mice like? You've seen Tom and Jerry. Cheese is a yellow food."
"Oh! Smell bad?"
"Yeah, I guess so," Randy chuckles. "You think everything smells bad."
"No, I think ham beggar smell good."
"Burger," Randy corrects absently. "And I know you're trying to distract me. You warmed up yet?"
She nods. She's lying. Randy lets it slide; he also stands and turns up the thermostat a few degrees. Ywéranth's stint as a mummy left her with shitty circulation. Takes longer for her to get warm. Randy should've thought of that when she first walked in. And he should've turned the lights up a little. Ywéranth grew up without the security of electric lighting, and she loves the lamp on Randy's desk. He reaches over and flicks it on, selecting the lowest setting. Even that hurts his eyes, so he puts his sunglasses on as well.
Ywéranth pulls the blanket more snugly around herself. Shit, she's still cold. Randy, you idiot, she's still cold. He sits down next to her on the couch and waits for her to scoot closer to him until their bodies are touching, his warmth fighting off her chill. Ywéranth presses herself against his side, seeking more. More heat, more flesh, more here and now and safe. She's obviously drunk from Tom's party, and tired out from her soaking journey to the office. Randy lets her take whatever comfort she needs from him. Late night grading can wait.
"Randy..."
"Hmm?"
"Cold."
"Here," Randy says, lifting his arm to draw her in closer. Ywéranth accepts the unspoken invitation and leans her head on the professor's shoulder. Her black hair blends in with the collage of ravens and bats on Randy's Halloween-themed Hawaiian shirt, and he's ridiculously happy that he chose that particular pattern to wear today. It looks nice next to Ywéranth's face. Sure, the rose-patterned afghan looks absurd next to it, but whatever. He's not a professor of graphic design.
"Randy."
"Hmm?"
"In your place, I am lone. Feel lonely. You feel it, too?" she asks. The words slosh around in her mouth, running into each other and spilling out the corners before she has a chance to catch them. Randy understands her perfectly.
"Yeah," he says. "I guess I feel lonely. Too much big shit goin' on, nobody pays attention to the little stuff anymore. Easy to get lost, ya know?" Ywéranth should know. She's very good at getting lost. Randy continues, "'Course, I was gonna be lonely no matter what. No use crying on spilled milk. How many queers do you think were waltzin' around Cleveland in the eighties? I'll tell ya. Not enough. Not like it is now."
"Tara say I am gay people," Ywéranth offers. Randy briefly bristles at the implication, at the idea that one queer acquaintance can erase an entire childhood built around anger at being recognized and condemned as the other; he deflates just a moment later. Ywéranth predates sexual orientation and colonial gender by several thousand years. She's just trying to help. And she's drunk.
"I feel mouth-lonely. You and Ahmed know me, nobody else."
"I'm sorry." He is, he feels sorrier about this young (a relative term) woman's lot in life than he has about anything else, even his pseudo-divorce or his missed free throw that cost his high school basketball team the regional game. He feels personally responsible, somehow, for the bizarre chain of events that has led to her sitting drunk in his office cuddling up to him in search of warmth he cannot fully give her. She wants emotion, connection, belonging. Randy can't give her all that.
He can do his best, though, because he knows no one else would even try. He loves this strange girl like she's the daughter his body is incapable of producing and he'll be damned if he lets himself fall into the distant dad stereotype. There's enough distance between Ywéranth and the rest of the world as it is.
"Know you no feel no good," Randy says in her language. "Know you wish all sleep, no want no more time here. And... But, you here is good. Me here can good help you. Love you." He's sober, has been for years, but the unfamiliar words get stuck on his tongue and behind his teeth and it takes everything he's got to dig them out and force them into any semblance of order. Sounds like he's drunk off his ass. He hopes Ywéranth understands.
"Yes," she responds in her own language. "I love you too."