(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
In spite of Gogol's expression of his innocence about her prenuptial disaster, she was certain that every Bengali family knew about it. Though she tried to speak lightly about that episode, he detected the bitterness in her voice.
She attempted to divert his attention from the topic. He sensed it and asked her, "when was the last time we saw each other."
"Correct if I'm wrong, but I think it was your high school graduation party."
He remembered that day when his family and friends assembled in a brightly lit basement of a church his parents had rented, and big folding tables were arranged in the hallways.
"You were there ?"
She nodded. "It was right before we moved to New Jersey. You sat with your American friends from high school. A few of your teachers were there. You seemed little embarrassed by it all."
He shook his head. "I don't remember you there. Did I speak to you ?"
"You ignored me thoroughly. But it doesn't matter." she smiled. "I'm sure I brought a book with me."
They had a second round of drinks. The bar was beginning to fill up, people sitting on either side of them. When he'd arrived, he'd been bothered by the lack of people, of sounds, feeling on display, but now the crowd bothered him even more.
"It's getting pretty crazy in here," he said
"It's not usually like this on a Sunday. Should we move ?"
"Maybe," he considered.
They asked for the bill, stepped out together, they saw that not even an hour passed.
"Where're you headed ?" she asked, in a way that made him realize that she assumed the date is over.
He'd not planned to take her for dinner, but said that he was thinking of getting something to eat, did she want to join him ?
"I'd like that," she said.
They decided to walk a bit, stopped in front of a small place that looked as if it had just opened. They studied the handwritten menu taped on the window, the review of the place printed in the Times.
"Shall we try it ?" he asked, stepping away and reaching for the door. Inside, the walls were painted red, old posters advertising wine, and street signs and photographs of Paris arranged on the walls.
"This place must seem silly to you," he acknowledged watching her gaze up at the walls.
She shook her head. "It's pretty authentic, actually."
She asked for a bottle of champagne and looked carefully at the wine list. He asked for another single malt, but was told that there was only beer and wine.
"Shall we have a bottle ?" she said, handing him the list.
"You choose."
She ordered a salad and bouillabaisse and a bottle of Sancerre. He ordered the cassoulet. She didn't speak French to the waiter, who was French himself, but the way she pronounced the items on the menu made it clear that she was fluent. It impressed him. Apart from Bengali, he'd never bothered to master another language. The meal passed quickly. He spoke of his projects involved, his upcoming exam.
She offered to pay her share when the bill came, as she'd done in the bar, but this time he insisted on treating. He walked her to her apartment, which was on a run-down but pretty residential block, close to the bar where they'd met. She thanked him for the dinner, said she'd a great time. Again she kissed him on both cheeks. He was parched from the alcohol he'd consumed. "So, should we make our parents happy and see each other again?"
She looked at him, studying his face intently. "Maybe." She smiled at him, nodding. "Give me a call."
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