Perhaps I am too sensitive, Viet thought.

Viet didn’t talk much because his English embarrassed him. His co-workers didn’t ask much of him either. They told stories amongst themselves and whispered secrets he pretended he was oblivious to. He once heard a co-worker describe him by saying he was as “quiet as they come.” They were talking in general terms about the droves of Asians they noticed arriving in San Francisco over the past few years. They noted how passive they were and quiet too and how Viet topped them all by being the quietest of all, practically invisible.

Viet realized that each person possessed his own hopes and fears. But every day, it was the same continual banter. One woman always talked about her unfaithful boyfriend. The other gushed about the celebrity gossip she read in the news. David talked about the Chevy Malibu he was fixing up and the places he’d go. Melvin talked about the girls, the endless line of anonymous bodies with interchangeable heads.

He let their words pass with the hours. It was like the French cargo planes of his youth, white noise so thunderously loud it became an indistinguishable drone. The postal work was tedious and Viet kept his mind alive by composing poems in his head for his daughters. During breaks, he’d write out the lines on scratch paper and then in the solitude of night when all the women in the house were sleeping, he recopied the poems on a linen scroll in calligraphy. He was saving them as wedding gifts for the girls.

At lunchtime that day, his oldest daughter strutted into the post-office. It upset him to see her, mid-day, out of class. She made a striking impression though, big smile and lithe limbs swinging. Elle had her waist length hair braided into cornrows. They pulled so tight on her scalp it gave her a feline-like appearance.

“Everything ok? Why you not in school?” Viet asked.

“Hi to you too, Dad.” She was chewing bubble gum.

“Answer me.” He paused to look over the braids, the blackness of it; decided she still looked pretty, refrained from comment.

“Mom asked me to bring you lunch today.” She handed over a grocery-sized brown paper bag. She had recently turned thirteen and already stood his height. She leaned in and whispered, “How was your interview?”

“Good,” he said, “good.” He looked in the bag and saw a glass jar of homemade soymilk. There was also a Tupperware container with white rice and what looked like steak (and probably was because Huong always made his favorite dishes on special occasions). A fork and knife were rolled and rubber-banded in a paper-towel.

Melvin came up and said, “Viet, man, how come you never introduce me to your family before?”

“This my daughter, Elle,” said Viet. He was about to tell his daughter that this was his co-worker, Melvin. But when Viet looked up, Melvin already had his hand reaching out at the girl.

Melvin was smiling, all mouth, and big white teeth. “Pleasure meeting such a beautiful young lady. I’m Melvin. You call me Mel, alright?” He winked.