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Short Story

Luna Rushdie
Oh please God. no more!
1 groan inwardly while trying to maintain an air of cool composure paying particular attention to posture. Back straight, hands clasped on my lap. lips slightly curled with a suggestion of a smile and eye contact, l ocus, Focus! 1 think to myself while / trying to ignore the itching on my back that started without warning. It takes all my effort to keep the hands clasped together firmly instead of a frantic back scratch. Yeah, that's it. girl, keep that smile in place, exude non-timid and non-arrogant confidence
The interview I had just over a week back was really just a formality. The job is in the same department and we all know each other. It is very similar to my current role but comes with a bigger customer portfolio and higher pay
Yet I have been holding my breath for more than a week now while Mr Would Be Boss Richard Castle hung out on a different corner of the same open floor plan with a stern approach-me-not look on his face. So I refrained from it and tried to appear nonchalant to the many enquiries of workmates. Finally today I have been summoned in this meeting room just ten minutes before I am about to shoot off to a three-hour training course. Now he is leafing through a file and I am. well... still holding my breath.
“Reena, first of all...’’
^He clears his throat and fixes an official-looking half smile on me. I smile up hopefully and notice his bottle green tie on a whiter than white shirt Green goes very well with white. How do people keep their shirts so white? I bought numerous white shirts for Asif but they take on this reddish white colour after one wash and look kind of dirty' no matter how clean they are. Asif is a bit of a slob on top of that, sooner or later he will have food splatters on his shirts and...
‘Thanks very much for your interest in the role and I really appreciate the time you have taken to prepare for the interview... *
He resumes and keeps going. “You have interviewed very well." “Thanks Richard.'
I smile gracefully. Uh oh. do 1 have food bits stuck to my teeth? Perhaps a closed lipped smile is the best option. He continues -- "Really sorry it took us so long to reach a decision." "No problem at all. I understand there was a lot of interest in the position." “Yes, well, a number of high quality applications too. We had many discussions about the five people interviewed for the role and it was a very tough decision to make. Unfortunately we won't be able to offer you the role in this instance.”
Huh? Come again? If I were a balloon 1 would surely pop right now. No, pop isn't the right word, popping requires energy and demands attention, it surprises. But I feel dumbfounded. As if all the air, life and other stuff is leaking out of me, fast. I feel two dimensional, flat.
But I continue to smile -- “Thanks for letting me know, Richard. Is there anything in particular you felt I lack?" "As I have told you, you interviewed well. However, we felt you were not passionate enough about the role.” “Passionate?"
"Yes, we did not get that feeling from you.
“Well, thanks for the opportunity Richard; I am sorry I will have to run for the training course now, maybe we can catch up later?"
"Sure..."
I leave him at half sentence as I dash towards my desk to pick up the
trai ning folder. The internal phone rings, I ignore it and walk away. Tears gather in my eyes as I press the lift button. How can you show passion in a job interview? Write "I am passionate” on my forehead? Stupid cheesy bullshitting airheads!
Oh come on, lift! I see myself in a old black and white movie type setting, casually dressed in jeans and a jacket, a woollen scarf around my neck and my short hair unruly in the wind. I am walking down a footpath in some European country (Greece? With the lovely old buildings, France maybe, or Italy?), it is drizzling and everything around me has a darker mysterious shade. It's all in black and white except for the yellow autumn leaves silently falling from the trees. I am walking with my head bent down to the tunes of bitter-sweet symphony playing in the background...
The lift arrives. Contrary to everything I hoped for it is almost full of people, so 1 squeeze in and smile at them weakly, though no faces register in my mind.
I wish I could talk to Asif for a few minutes. This makes me wish we did not have that stupid fight last night. Now I can't call him even if I have the opportunity. It was a fight that started with a silly thing but got serious. Maybe we will end up with a divorce. It started with his socks.
"Asif, how many times have I told you not to leave your smelly socks under the duvet?”
“Huh?"
He was browsing the Net as usual.
"Asifi”
"What?"
He looked up briefly, a bit annoyed. "Don't leave your socks on the bed, they stink." “Heh heh."
“It's not funny."
'"Want to smell my feet?" "Want to smell my bum?" He laughed, I laughed. Then we got into this play fight and he held the socks under my nose which almost made me choke. Of course I got really angry and slapped him. But he was still playing and he started tickling me. So I pulled his hair and he tickled me more.
“Get off me!" I screamed.
This got his attention. 1 Ie looked at me, a bit puzzled.
"Look Asif, I can't do this anymore. You never help with the housework. You don't talk to me. It's like we don't live in the same house anymore." "I help, I do the vacuuming.” "Once a month? Who does the cooking? Shopping? Ironing?” “Those are just minor things.” “Minor things? Then why don't you do them?
"If I have to do them, what did I marry you for? Women are only good for a few things. Don't you know what WIFE stands for? Washing, Ironing, Food and Entertainment."
He smiled. Even though I knew he was still joking I got furious nonetheless. Eventually I blurted out -- "You asshole! Never forget that I married you as a favour. Don't forget my sacrifices. Would you ever get an Australian passport if 1 didn't sponsor you? Mind your language when you speak to me.”
He laughed in that hurt yet helpless way that made me want to take my words back and hug him with all my strength. But it was too late. His expression was changing; the hurt look was being replaced by an angry one. He said - "Look at yourself in the mirror first! Don't talk to me about favours. You complained I don't talk to you, that's because we have nothing to talk about! I don't enjoy talking to you. Why should I waste my time with something I don't like?” “Yes, why of course? Now that you have your visa and passport you don't
need me anymore, that’s it, right? "I never needed you and you arc free to leave any time you want." "Why should I leave? This is my house!”
"Because half of it is mine!” "See you in court then.” "Fine!"
"Fine!"
So that was that, my marriage down the toilet. I slept in the spare bed-room--wcll, tossed and turned with very little sleep. Then I came to work to receive the rejection letter in person. A fine day I am having!
In the training room Matt from the corporate section is sitting next to me. He is really good looking and normally immaculately dressed. He is so perfect that he feels very distant even though he is always nice and says hello. Today he looks tired and his suit is a bit worn from up close. I also spot a flake of dandruff in his hair. This comforts me somewhat --“You look tired.”
"Yeah, the children kept me up." "The training is a bit boring, eh?” "Tell me about it."
We smile and pretend to concentrate on the notes. I suddenly realise that I have always been an almost person. I never quite got anywhere. From the time I was young, I was chubby. People told me what a beautiful face I had, if only I could lose weight! I always wanted to be an author; my father told me I had potential, if only I worked hard. I feel a paragraph coming on right now. I quickly take out a pen and start writing..
The distance between two footsteps may be infinite. The door that did not open was not firmly shut either but slightly ajar. The breeze escaping through the gaps brought in fragrances of wild roses, dust and an anticipation of rain. Only a hard enough push would have made all the difference. But I hesitated...
Sounds a bit too flowery. Nevertheless, I ponder over this all day.
On the bus home 1 fail asleep. I am tired.
I wake up, I have missed my stop. Everything seem blurry to me. It's almost dark. I get off.
Where am I? It feels like the middle of no where. It's cold and it rained earlier. The streets smell like rain.
There are hardly any street lights on the road. I sec a window with lace curtains. There is a light in the living room. A woman is reading something. A man is talking to a child. The TV is turned on. Some windows make me ache. I feel alone.
It is a moonlit night. Streaks of light from the headlights of the passing cars keep intercepting the moonlight on the black pitch of the road. The air carries a misty and dusty fragrance from a previous life and the moon seems to move along with me. A long time ago when we were children, we lived in Dhaka. We were coming home. My parents, my sisters and me. All five of us in one rickshaw. It was a cool night, but we were huddled together. The moon moved with us and we were surprised. We watched in awe as the moon floated along with our rickshaw. The surroundings were bathed in moonlight on that night of the full moon. The road, the old streetlights that normally spread darkness rather than light, the lone krishnachura tree on the corner, the footpath and the pedestrians, one or two lost cows that walked about on the road, all the other rickshaws and those rare glimpses of cars that sped past were all enveloped by the moonlight and moulded together to breathe as a single being. The air smelt of dust, mist and of shefali flowers that were in full bloom at some unseen corner...
I can smell flowers now. I just missed the next bus back as I was crossing the road. My phone is dead. I would have called Asif otherwise. I wait. A group of young boys in a rusty car yells abuse at me. I feel like crying. A bus arrives eventually. I get off at the right stop this time. The moon still follows me. As I step on my front deck, I notice a silhouette approach me. I hear his footsteps, tired. He steps on the deck from the other side. I see his face now. Asif. The light is on in our living room. Our cat is sleeping on the chaise.
Asif comes closer; the moonlight shines on his hair. His eyelashes seem moist.
"I looked for you everywhere,” he says.
Luna Rushdie lives and works in Auckland New Zealand.