Imperfect Triangle

Chapter 2

I look for the roster that hangs on the side of the refrigerator by a magnet hook.

"I'll let you pick the date, time and location," he says.

"Really?" Puzzled with his proposal, I slide my index finger across the calendar, where the initials of all the employees are marked all over the place in blue.

He nods.

"Okay...How about next Saturday night? Only if you have the time."

"I'll make it." He assures me with a grin.

"But what if...it will be really late at night?"

"It's fine. Just don't bail on me this time."

The hour hand of the clock is pointing toward 10. With the weakest effort, I push the door open for merely an inch to take a peek at Grandma Ying, who is snoring on the bottom bunk of our bed. Thank god that nothing on TV tonight interests her, or else there will be a lot of explanation needed for me leaving the house. She has always been strict on my social life disregarding my age. I barely had any friends growing up.

She proved to me time to time that it was not a good idea to invite a classmate to our shop for a free drink. Maybe it's because her own daughter was knocked up by a gambling addict when she was turning 18. Now that Jin was gone, Grandma Ying has become even more paranoid. I'm her only safety net and she wants to make sure that I won't be diverted, such as eloping with some random guy.

I put on a khaki military jacket that once belonged to Jin on top of a black Arctic Monkeys t-shirt, which goes along with a pair of tight jeans. It's the best outfit I can assemble with limited pieces in my wardrobe. I tie my withering hair into a messy top-bun again as I don't really know other ways to deal with it.

The place I picked is nothing dazzling. It's a dingy yet bustling cooked food stall, only few blocks away from my home, serving Chinese spicy saute dishes til midnight while the tables are set along the sidewalk under the street lamps. I can guarantee that the food is superb, but for the hygiene, well, let say I'm very forgiving in that aspect. I hope Mr. Morita's standard is not too far from mine.

I sit at a wooden, crooked, folding table, waiting patiently. A girl dressed in a yellow mini-skirt walks by and sells me bottled beers. That's what they do in cooked food stalls. I order half a dozen from her, hoping that it will not leave a bad impression on Mr. Morita. I look at the customers sitting near our table. There are middle-aged men guzzling beer and chatting loudly with excessive foul language. Some even have triad-inspired tattoos on their arms.

Okay, maybe there are something more to be worried about besides the amount of beer I've ordered. I rest my head into my palm, thinking I've made a wrong choice.

"Hey." Someone pats my head and asks, "What's wrong?"

I jerk my head up and see Mr. Morita towering over me. His maroon baseball cap is the first thing I notice. It's refreshing to see him wearing something casual; the cap, the white t-shirt and the denim jeans, they all suit him perfectly.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have picked this place," I mumble, entwining my fingers together.

"Nah. This place is interesting. I need some new experience anyway." He glances around and takes the seat opposite to me.

Not fully convinced by what he says, I smile and pass him the menu. His eyes move slowly from up and down, then left to right. He seems genuinely happy with the choices offered on the menu.

"You don't like shrimps, right?" He looks away from the menu and asks, "What about clams? Do you like clams?"

I don't remember when did I tell him that. Sometimes, even Grandma Ying forgets about that because Jin loves shrimps.