Kim was scared but continued holding Bao’s hand. He interlaced his fingers between hers, pushing deep so that the dips and grooves of bone and flesh became a solid fist. With his other hand, he reached over and touched the nape of her neck with cautious fingertips. He swallowed hard and she watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall. “I like your hair short. Brings out your face,” he said. “I’m glad to see it’s not wet anymore.” He inched in with cognac and cigarettes on his breath.

Kim let him kiss her shoulder, while she watched the door. She let his lips graze her neck, while she studied for shadows under the slit of it. She let him place his hand on her thigh as she listened for approaching footsteps. She thought she could smell her own fear. She thought her heart would burst. And yet she couldn’t help but smell his scent, couldn’t help imagining how his mouth would feel opening upon her. Her husband had said move on, but would he forgive her? Or would she live with a lifetime of footprints stamped on her back?

Kim understood desire in its true form as a thirst, as a yearning so deep, it meant risking tragic consequences for the promise of only one sip.

Bao asked, “Can we go somewhere?”

But where? She pictured her and Bao in the cluttered hallway closet the kids called the phone booth, panting and grasping between the interview clothes, reaching for an arm to discover a broom handle, squirming between winter jackets and cardboard boxes. From this nook in the kitchen, in the central room of a shared house, Kim heard her sisters in the living room asking the men if they were finished with their food. She heard her brothers grumble and sigh. There was the clatter and ding of plates being stacked one on top of the other.

Bao said, “Please, anywhere,” and this time it was his lips that trembled. He squeezed her hand even harder, not letting go, leaning in closer, waiting for her reply. She could feel his warmth radiant on the tips of her lashes.

The kettle began to cry but they ignored it. Kim wanted to give herself over. She wanted to be like The Pussycats, arched back and easy abandonment. She wet her lips and waited. Bao’s mouth had barely skimmed hers when the boom of her oldest brother’s voice jolted her backward. From the other room, Lam shouted something incomprehensible, although she guessed it to be the punch line of a joke when a huge wave of laughter spilled into the kitchen. The tide of laughter peaked and crested, crashing to the shattering of breaking glass, followed by her daughter’s wail, screeching louder than the crying kettle. These decibels of life coalesced layer by layer, until the pressure of so much wanting under one roof finally swept the kitchen door wide open.

Sophia ran through and hopped into her mother’s lap. She cried about the glass she’d accidentally dropped and broken. Kim comforted her by smoothing down her hair. As was Sophia’s new habit, she meowed to show her gratitude. But this time, Kim didn’t scold her. She continued petting the sleek black hair. Beneath her hand, her daughter purred.