dirkjake and secret

“It’s really quite fascinating—it’s a cant, maybe not a full language, but a linguistic development without the aide of generational or cultural—”

“We’re a culture,” Dirk says, spread out on the bed Jake had rented for the night with no intention to use.

“Oh,” Jake replies. “Right. Noted. Still, though, you share no racial or religious or even occupational similarities. It’s a downright miracle—Honestly, there should be a dictionary—”

“Nanti,” Dirk says. “I don’t want this polari in the lills of some wandering charper, dizzy dish.”

Jake is quick to scribble into the notebook before him. “Nanti is ‘no,’ right? And charper is a policeman…”

“Or a search. Or a searcher. Context, doll.”

“And what’s a ‘dizzy,’ again?”

“Scattered, as in mentally.”

“Mhmm,” Jake notes. He makes more marks on his papers. “And ‘dish’?”

“Uh,” Dirk starts.

Jake looks up from his University-commissioned notebook. He blinks at Dirk’s sudden apprehension, the first the man has showed yet.

“Yes?” Jake asks.

“A dish is a—” Dirk says, finally. He glances away. “Handsome. I guess it means you’re handsome.”

The sound of more determined pencil strokes fill the room. “Dish,” Jake repeats. “Handsome. Then piecing together an approximate translation I’m a—” He looks back up at Dirk. “Oh!” he says. “Oh. You think I’m a handsome scatterbrain.”

“Sorry,” Dirk says. He shrugs. “I keep forgetting I’m letting you in on the secret.”