Hongmei spent all of dinner silently watching the clock as it ticked closer and closer to eight. Glen seem so innocent, so unperturbed, and chatted aimlessly about classes. He had no idea what she was thinking or plotting. When Glen got up from his seat, leaving his dirty plate and utensils behind, Hongmei saw her chance. Not even bothering to make up an excuse or finish her dinner, she dashed out into the storm, calling out to Glen as he made himself comfortable in front of the TV, “Back soon!”

* * *

There was no one she knew in the Blue Danube. All twenty-odd tables were full, and an experimental play was taking place on the little stage: a dozen theater majors wearing the white face makeup of mimes, imitating the movements of various animals. The lead actor was reciting lines that sounded like they were from Waiting for Godot.

Hongmei waited and waited for the secret talker to show up. The scent of rain and hot coffee mingled, making this first encounter feel warmer and more homely. She felt strangely safe.

Her eyes swept across the faces at every table. This person was late. There were no seats she liked the look of, so she went around the walls studying the oil paintings—the handiwork of art majors. The person had said he’d be holding an art journal with a bust by Julio González on the cover. This person had toyed with her enough, playing with both their identity and their gender. She looked at her watch—only one minute had passed. She’d give it ten minutes and then she’d leave. The oil paintings had been hung recently; the paint still smelled fresh. Why not open by saying something about them? People needed safe topics of conversation when they met for the first time. She’d say, Look at these lifeless brushstrokes, these screaming colors that have nothing to say. Just as so much sumptuous-looking food has no taste, or so much sex has no emotion, or so much conversation has no meaning.

She pretended to be absorbed in the paintings and gradually turned a corner. This led her to a passageway that ended at the back door. She guarded the way out, listening to everyone’s entrances and exits, movements and silences. Her face was tilted up, her back and neck very relaxed, hands folded lazily before her chest. From the back, she didn’t look expectant at all. Now and then a drop of water trickled down from her wet hair, rolling lazily down her temple, leaving a ticklish, icy trail.

Then a new customer walked in, volubly greeting the two girls sitting by the entrance.

It was Glen.