Logs:Chop-Chop
| Chop-Chop | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-12-18 "I don't think they've ever heard the word 'polycule' before but I don't think I want them to." |
| Location
<???> hi-jinks to lo-jinks | |
It is definitely not frigid winter weather here, anymore, though Sriyani is bundled up snug and warm in a toasty bright orange parka trimmed in black faux-fur, heavy boots -- a blast of frigid air, a slice of daylight and a string of Quebecois curses follows them through the door, probably at least a little bit startling to the unsuspecting patrons of this cozy nook of a chai waale, late into the night now. Sriyani is covering their mouth with a mittened hand, stifling both their giggle and the somewhat disingenous apologies they're hastily offering in somewhat stilted Sinhala as they exit the shop into a bustling street festival, stripping off their winter layers as they go. "White people can be so uptight," might also be a little disingenuous under the circumstances. "-- but okay I probably have to get back soon and finish my homework anyway ugh but you wanna get some food first they have the best kottu roti here." Roscoe is still pretty bundled, though now he's picking at his winter coat (also vivid orange, maybe in retrospect they should have expected to get caught, oh well hindsight!), pulling the zipper up and down nervously, peering back over his shoulder, though he too is grinning broad; he has to snap his head forward again hastily to avoid crashing into either Sriyani or the doorway as they head out. "We weren't even doing anything," he's agreeing-complaining-grumbling, his voice is still not quite comfortable enough in its lower range to manage all three of those at once without cracking. "What homework? I still have so much math to do -- yeah I could eat. What's kottu roti?" Sriyani's wide-wide eyes, quick-drawn gasp, the way they grab Roscoe's hand to start darting off, manages to imply at one and the same time that they're absolutely shocked anyone could possibly not know what kottu roti is and also extremely excited they will get to be the one to introduce him to this delight. "Oh my gosh it's only the most delicious mess of street food -- like they'll take the roti and -- " Their other hand is making an animated chopping motion in the air. "And then they ch-ch-ch-ch," the chopping motions shift into a somewhat wibbly back-and-forth paddling, is this explicative? Who knows. Somewhere not far off there is a loud clangy pounding. Sriyani is dragging them this way. "-- anyway I'm pretty sure you're gonna have so much math to do from now until like, the end of the Trump dictatorship. I also have math though. But only like, one class worth of math. For Mr. da Costa so it's -- hooopefully not so bad? I'm genuinely considering giving up when I get to Dr. Deeb is that like, a shame to Asianity do you think." With Sriyani dragging him forward by the hand Roscoe apparently feels confident to gawp around/through the street festival as though he'll find the kottu roti if he just looks for a lot of people making choppy hand motions, certainly he's trying, though after he gets elbowed in the head by someone standing on a crate fixing his awning he seems to decide maybe he should just keep his eyes in his head. His voice is still cheerful -- "Oh I did da Costa's already if you want to compare answers! Is Deeb that bad, I never know what to believe, people are so dramatic about the teachers here I swear they act like giving homework should be a crime. I think it would be more shameful if you took the class and sucked at it, that's way more obvious that's just letting it defeat you." "I don't know, I swear I caught Quentin almost making a face once doing her assignments so I'm a little worried. I mean, it was not the Calc and that's all I'd get to but still. I will probably take you up on the double checking tonight's homework though -- oh!" There are some people making choppy motions -- not just hand ones but very theatrical chopping-mixing-pounding with large flat knives against wide griddles, chopping and pounding bits of flatbread to mix with a variety of ingredients -- onions and chilies in with curried veggies or egg or fish or meat as requested by their customers. Sriyani is beelining towards one muscular man, not the very most theatrical of the mixers (some tossing and twirling their knives as they chop) but with plenty of flair all the same. There's a mess of a crowd around him, no particular line, and they're tucking in at the edge, calling up to the man something in Sinhala over the sound of the pounding with an indicative gesture towards Roscoe. Whatever they say, he's waggling his head in acknowledgment, the rhythmic clack-pound continuing. "-- I have a bit to decide anyway," their voice is pitching louder, now, "whatever happens I am not gonna be a shame to my parents and I am double not gonna let Quentin be all smug at me -- well, smugger. -- oh my gosh can you believe we are already at break term is flying when we actually have, like, real classes." "You're sure it was the homework and not someone passing by with The Chicken Dance stuck in their head or -- ohhh." Given that Sriyani's gestural description was fairly accurate is not clear what Roscoe had been imagining but his eyes are going wide, then shutting completely while he takes a deep, somewhat twitchy-nosed inhale, "It smells good -- do you have money," his tone make a sudden and radical shift into pinchy concern, "I only have American cash. -- don't your parents like you, I feel like terrorism...ing the government was more shame-y anyway, at least that's something you'll always have over Quentin," he's finally trying to worm out of his coat, a little bit awkward in the press of crowd. "It was going fast this whole time I think that just comes with the actually... doing things and not sitting around going crazy. Maybe I'm just not used to it yet." "Ohh, yeah, I guess it could have been anything. Anyway terrorisming the government is like, a proud moment for my mom. Nooot so much my dad but at least he's like, used to it." Sriyani has been holding their coat (and sweatshirt and a sweater they pulled off from beneath) in a squishy wad against their chest and have to fish around in the muddle for their wallet. They are inching further up toward the front, producing some bills from the mess in their wallet (there are a large range of currencies in there) to offer the kottu maker so that he can start dicing up their muddle of curried eggs and veggies. "I come prepared. See, we're just gonna have to keep packing in the doing things to make up for your lost time -- heyyy has all the math bought you any more leeway with your parents? Because mine are totally gonna invite you for dinner at least once over brea -- oh my gosh," Sriyani's eyes are going wide again. "Is tomorrow dance already? Are we going? We're going, right?" Roscoe isn't removing his sweatshirt, though he does push up his sleeves; he probably doesn't need any extra height to peer at the wallet, but he's rolling his feet onto the edges of his shoes and craning his neck anyway with a snickery laugh. "-- shoot, I bet Bryce doesn't have that on him all the time and he calls himself a Boy Scout. I mean, I don't think it's the math that did it but -- oh no my parents would definitely wanna meet yours that sounds really awkward. Maybe I can fake my own death." Probably that was a joke? He's grimacing, lower lip tucking under his big front teeth, then -- "Oh, shoot I forgot to ask, I have a test tomorrow it's taking up all my Thursday thoughts -- yeah, is that okay, do you have fancy clothes? Oh, shoot, do I have fancy clothes?" "It would be soooo awkward," Sriyani agrees, though they're laughing rather than grimacing about it, "I think we wouldn't have to fake anyone's death because all of New England would implode in a black hole of disaster. Just imagine the very first time my mom even tries to explain about her polycule, all our families are gonna get wiped off the map. -- Iii might have to lay down some ground rules with her or things will be real wild." They are stretching up onto their toes to get their food, paper cones filled with the chopped curried mess, long wooden spork thrust in to eat with -- they're thanking the vendor cheerfully before turning away. "-- umm, I haven't really grown like, ever, I'm sure I can wear whatever I wore to last dance right? Oh besides Nahida will help us out if I just make big eyes at her. What test do you have do we gotta get back like, now?" "I don't think they've ever heard the word 'polycule' before but I don't think I want them to," says Roscoe, shaking his head. "Just tell your mom they're Trump voters, she can figure the rest out." He takes a bite of the kottu roti as soon as it's in his hand, "Mmmgghh that was too hot," and it takes him a little while to recover enough to answer. "No, it's just ethics it's not that important, if I know it I know it. I rented a tux for prom, though, so that's gone." He frowns down his shoulders at himself, eyes going squinty with amusement. "Maybe we should head back and ask Nahida before everyone else starts bugging her." Surely, as far in advance as Wednesday, this is achievable. "That would be risky I feel like fifty fifty she'd want to troll -- at least my dad's gonna be on his best behavior --" Sriyani is blowing on their own first spoonful of roti, and is spared from burning themselves on the mouthful by snorting at Roscoe's statement. "Oh my gosh, I think that some of her girlfriends in Artemis started planning their outfits after the Halloween dance." Though after this their nose is crinkling, amused. "-- Then again it means she's probably done their orders already and we're past that rush. C'mon --" They're bopping their shoulder light against his, ducking under some hanging ropes laden with cashew apples and thambili to open a creaky door that did lead into a vibrant tailor stall but now leads back to the quieter of the Dionysus lounges. "-- math is waiting." | |
