I’m not eating. His mother protesting, shoulders up, The turkey is free-range. It’s organic. I made sure. Mom. I stopped eating meat three years ago. She flaps her hand. Well, eat the potatoes, then, I don’t care, eat the green beans. Jerry slides the tar into the trash, the balls trembling against the bag of turkey guts. How is Erik? she says, leaning forward to try the gravy, lips peeled back from her teeth. He’s fine. Jerry, she says, and Jerry turns, sleeves rolled, rubbing his hands. What can I do? The turkey, she says, and he actually replies, Oh, boy. Xie puts the potatoes and green beans on the table, opens the can of cranberry sauce, slides it onto the plate. You need to cut that. I know. Cutting it. Beautiful color. Congealed blood. The table only seats two comfortably. Barely room for the stuffing, the gravy boat, the rolls. Cut glass dish full of butter. Xie touches his silverware. Think of it like. A dream. The two of them sitting there. Smiling at each other. Jerry leaning to rub her thigh. Thank you for this, honey. Jerry folding a piece of skin into his mouth. Xie dips the roll in a smear of cranberry sauce. Gets through a couple bites, spits the last into his napkin. Don’t you want some vegetables, Xie? Jerry asks. I don’t eat animal products, Xie says, and Jerry, confused, staring at the green beans, How is this— Butter, Xie interrupts. Butter is from milk, which is from cows, which are animals. Jerry blinks. Gosh, I didn’t even think of that. Sorry. His mother’s fork hitting the plate every time she stabs up a forkful of food. There is music on, something classical, cheerful. What are you thankful for. The yellow walls and white woodwork. Gleaming steel appliances. The vintage china plates with real gold on the rims. Silver candlesticks. He goes to wash the dishes while they finish. Come watch a movie, she calls, and they do, Xie on the floor, his head against the leg of the couch. In the middle of Home Alone 2 his mother touches his hair. It’s so soft, she says. Jojoba oil, he says. Mm. She falls asleep and Jerry carries her to bed. Their door shut. Xie stares at the television. Turns it off. He opens a window and instead of the sound of the stream the sound of traffic, the browning fronds of the palms dotting the boardwalk, endless stream of lights through the glass. Distant scent of ash from a fire somewhere in the hills. His mother laughs in the other room, about to get fucked by Jerry. Nowhere to go. Xie punches his thigh, once, twice. Doesn’t feel it. Knuckles pressed between his teeth, bone seeking bone, You fucking bastard, are you real? Then show yourself.