11/8/17

Tucked in a residential area of Chinatown, the Airbnb was one of those units you could enter through a separate entrance in the back. The room’s walls were a pastel green, and a poster of Starry Night was tacked above the double bed. Since it was below ground, there were no windows, but the owners had invested in nice lighting that brightened and dimmed cozily. A tiny fridge, a wooden door leading to a small bathroom, and a low-to-the-ground sofa were the other main elements of the space. It smelled like lemon cleaning supplies and a touch of green onion.

“How does it look to you?” he asked.

In response, I bounced down on the bed, which emitted a soft wheezing noise. “It’s perfect,” I said, looking into his eyes and beaming.

He blushed slightly and set his things down on the sofa. He closed the door and sat behind me, gently putting a hand on my knee. “Should we go eat?”

I nodded.

On the walk there I held his arm against the early November cold, which is always worse because you aren’t expecting it yet. His phone rang, and he asked me if I minded him answering. I said no, and listened to his conversation with a parent setting up boxing lessons for their son. I cuddled his arm closer, happy that he was the type of man who got calls like that.

The Mongolian restaurant served steaming soups in deep metal bowls, divided with a partition in the center in the shape of yin and yang to separate spicy from mild broth. The waitress brought us heaping plates of green vegetables, gooey dumplings, and raw meats to cook in the broth. We excitedly placed each new thing into the broth and observed it wilt in its unique way. We experimented, watching each other with delight as we dipped and sipped and nibbled. The broth was hot, garlicky, slightly sweet, and full bodied, and it emitted a soft cloud of vapor that enveloped us warmly. In this cloud, we talked about his goals of designing clothing with thought-provoking messages, his career as a martial artist, and my aspirations in dance and school. We agreed that eating animals seemed wrong but that we were still doing it for now. Each time our eyes met, I felt the corners of my mouth being pulled upwards by some invisible and mischievous force.

“I feel like I’m high,” I said, giggling.

Smiling, he shrugged and put his arm reassuringly around my shoulders.

In bed, we watched Anthony Bourdain tramping through cacao forests on Netflix, while we intertwined our legs beneath the covers. Anthony Bourdain started to go into great detail about the differences in different shades of cacao plants, and we turned towards each other instead. He kissed me very gently and calmly, and the sensation I felt reminded me of drinking cool water on a hot day. He brushed my hair from my forehead and slowly kissed, moving from my lips to my neck to my chest to my ribs in delicate, winding circles. I imagined my favorite emoji of sparkling stars flickering all over my body. I sighed and felt my body melt into a less solid form.

The next day, we emerged from the Airbnb, squinting at the sun. We returned to the main plaza of Chinatown and found a place for breakfast. I got coffee with jelly cubes in it. I wasn’t sure if I liked it or not, but I did like offering it to him and watching him place a cube on his tongue and make a pensive face.

We walked next door to the dry goods stores. I had come here as a child with my mother, who is perpetually intrigued by strange-smelling things in languages she doesn’t understand. I pointed out the shark fin on the top shelf and widened my eyes, and made him sniff the musty odor of the dried sea urchins. He took it all in, his eyes warm and intrigued.

We walked out into the plaza, and I noticed that the trees lining the walkway were all gingko trees. “My favorite tree!” I exclaimed.

He joined me at a tree’s base and we looked up. The translucently yellow, fan-shaped leaves rustled against each other against the deep crystal blue sky. For a moment the beauty of it was as harsh as the cold wind against my face. I took a sharp breath, and shifted my gaze to his open face gazing upwards, the dappled sunlight playing across his cheekbones.

That evening he dropped me off at home and we said goodbye. My mother noted my misty eyes and onion-lemon scent as I drifted towards my room. She smiled and said nothing.

As I walked to work the next morning, I noticed a yellow blanket of fan-shaped leaves beneath my feet. The gingko leaves had all fallen at once in the night.