Jane read the letter for the second time. Dear Jane, It was so nice to have lunch with you today. I smiled the whole way home; I’m just so damn proud and happy to be your mother. When you were three, you used to do the cutest thing. We would be sitting on the coach, and then you would just get up and walk over to coffee table and have a conversation with an imaginary clerk. Some days you would be buying shoes, some days, apples, some days eggs. But you would always negotiate and right from the start you learned your lessons well. Never make the first offer and never accept their first. You were just so adorable then. And now, with a three year old of your own, I wonder if the scene acts itself out all over again. It’s hard to believe you’re 40 now. I must tell you, that was a hard year for me. I really felt a loss of energy and had a hard time finding my rhythm again. If you go through this, don’t worry, it will pass. You will find your step, your way again. And, how do I say this. Another big shift happened when I turned 40. I felt less attractive. The men who used to notice me, noticed me less. The side glances, the turned heads, the innocent flirtations, all seemed to evaporate at once. I adjusted, but it took some time. I had to rediscover your father again. Why am I writing all this doom and gloom? I mean you looked fabulous, you were simply beaming. Tell me, are you pregnant again? I can’t explain it, you just had that certain glow. I’m so glad to hear your new job is going well. It’s amazing they would promote you so fast. But I know you deserve it. From the day you were born I knew you were special. Are special. They say a son goes with his wife’s family and a daughter stays with hers. Well, that is certainly true in our case. You’ve taken such good care of me since Dad died. Can you believe it’s been 14 years? And here it is Mother’s day and you take me to lunch. Next week I’m taking you, it’s long overdue. I was reading the Wally Lamb book you gave me for Christmas. It ended with three things he knew to be true. First, god exists in round things. Second, mongrels make good dogs. And finally, love springs from the depths of forgiveness. May we all find a little forgiveness on this day. Love, Mom. Jane, put her pen down. Satisfied with her writing and the anger it released she tore the paper in to squares each smaller than the last. She took the remains flushed them like a dead rat. Her final stop for the night was the freezer and a pint of ben and jerrys. ...

It’s halftime of the Argentina vs. Serbia match and even though I don’t know much about soccer I know Argentina is playing damn good. They are my new favorite team. My wife likes the players with their flowing hair and clean shaven faces. A friend comments that it’s the beautiful team vs. the ugly team, and he’s right. The Serbians could use a little work on and off the field. Anyway, they have a beer chugging contest at half time. Five people compete to see who can chug a bottle of beer the fastest, the winner getting some meaningless prize ¨C maybe a new liver. It takes some work, but they finally get five contestants, three Americans and two Chinese men. It’s a little weird demographic wise as there are about 300 people in the audience, slightly more than half men, and only a handful of Americans. I can consume plenty of beer myself, but don’t chug. The contest over ¨C a Chinese man beat the Americans ¨C the second half proceeds with Argentina seemingly toying with Serbia. There is one play in particular. An Argentine player is closely guarded, so he kicks the ball through the legs of the defender, runs around him then sidesteps another defender, then curves the ball around the goaltender for a goal. It was pure magic. And, only their second best goal of the night. Game complete, the four of us head over to the Russian nightclub. I was a little hesitant to bring it up ¨C after last time ¨C but it seems the couple actually enjoyed the last time so we went. Besides, I had a bottle of vodka on hold there from the time in between the last time and this time. We arrive, and start drinking screwdrivers. The Russian hookers start to look good. After a few more drinks even my friend’s wife starts to move with the music which she’s never done before. I walk around to check out the scene. My wife is fascinated by some young Russian men at the table behind us. I remind her that men that age don’t even need 15 minutes between rounds. They just reload. This does not discourage her. They put on a dance show. A black man and female crew dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean”. Then a group of belly dancers one of which eventually makes her way to our table. My friend’s life is complete at this point. He could die at that moment and be happy. Me, I’ve died a long time ago as it is. Then we are treated to a Las Vegas style dance troop without the nudity. Eventually the dancers take a break and a live band comes on. They are pretty good, especially the male singer. They are Russian but sing most of their songs in Chinese. When the band is done, the dance floor opens up complete with go-go dancers. I pay particular attention to a Chinese woman dancing with her Chinese man but looking straight at a hot go-go dancer. My friend is standing directly behind the go-go dancer. Eventually he takes his wife on the dance floor. My wife and I don’t dance, can’t dance really, so we stay behind and just people watch. Feeling pretty wasted but frisky, we stumble home to our small condo. In our bed are our two children. In the tiny second bedroom are my wife’s nephew and her mom. Downstairs is the Ayi. Somehow we still manage. A young Russian man I am not, but I can pretend for¡well..two minutes at least. ...

To the average American my age, the world cup is an event that occurs every four years about a sport that you only care about every four years. Kind of like the Olympics. But in Beijing, and in most of the world I suspect, the world cup is a month long festival of soccer. If you are from Togo (and I must ask you, where the hell is that, it sounds like a sandwich wrapped in cloth) the goal scored against South Korea was not just a momentary cause for cheer but a life long reminiscence. So what if your German born, aging, playboy looking coach quit the team three days before the match only to return the day before. And a fashion tip to all you old German born playboy looking coaches. If you must wear jeans, go with the lose fit. Prefer a sweater to a button down gold chain hanging silk shirt. And by all means, do not smile in a way that makes you look like a horse with dentures. Anyway, here in Beijing, every bar, every restaurant is showing the world cup. A 600 year old temple near my home shows the world cup on two big screen TVs placed on its altar. The sun god, the reason the temple exists, must not be please. Or perhaps the sun god is a world cup fan. The first game comes on at 9pm, the next at midnight, the last at 3am. Colleagues slept at their desks after the 3am Brazil win the other night. Me, I mostly watch at home during the week. Listening to the Chinese announcers on CCTV channel 5 call the game. The only Chinese I can make out is the word for “beautiful” as in “beautiful shot”. On weekends we will go to a bar or a temple to watch. Last Saturday night we went to Browns, the latest mega bar in Beijing. Maybe three hundred people were there and they cheered when England won. England’s only goal was scored when the opponent accidentally hit the ball into their own net. Long live the king. The other night a Chinese new reporter was in Germany reporting on the activities. She was talking with a bunch of enthusiastic Mexican fans. She wore a poncho. Hot. I’m hoping the USA puts up a good fight, at least makes it to the quarter finals, but all signs are against it. If they don’t make it, well, we have another four years before we have to care about it again. ...

She found herself in the produce section staring at the green apples and not knowing why. She always wanted to know why. About everything. It drove her friends nuts. Drove them away eventually. So she told herself to relax. There may be no reason she was in front of the apples vs. say the ice cream, but since she was there she might as well take a look. And look she did. Then she picked up an apple, dismissed it for lack of color, then picked up another and dismissed for too much color. One had too much wax. Another had bruises she could see. Another had bruises she could feel. Eventually she came along a good apple. Maybe not the best apple in the bunch, but a good one. That’s all it was to her, a good apple. She bought the apple, digging through her purse for change, and returned home. She placed the apple in the center of her kitchen table. It was alone. That night, when the warm turned to cold and the only light was filtered from the bathroom, she picked up the apple, washed it, and took a bite. And indeed, it was a good apple. Sweet but not too sweet. Solid, but not dry. She took her time eating this good apple, occasionally flossing the skin that got stuck between her teeth. Satisfied, she relaxed, and sitting in the dark the world didn’t seem so scary. She drifted to sleep with the rotten core barely registering in her dreams. ...

He ordered a mixed salad, spaghetti bolognaise, and a beer. The salad was small, as was the pasta, but the beer was at least twice what he expected. He didn’t really want the bear, not after Friday night, but he figured he had to drink something. He ate in silence, reading a four day old copy of the USA today, happy for a few stories from home. Across the room sat two foreigners, that is to say Americans like him in this strange land, who managed to cross the street from their five star hotel and “go local”. Other patrons were actual locals, deciding to “go western”. He was perhaps the only who fit the scene, and he never fit any scene. There was most definitely something wrong with this picture, heck if he cared what it was. Mainly he worried if he had enough food. Worried that he had too much beer. Especially after Friday night. Too much beer can lead to, well, some things are not best thought about over and over. The two foreigners continued their talk, loud and confident as if they’ve braved a new world. How amazing they are, in this strange land, going around without a care in the world. Making it their own. Just like the one billion people who live here and could care less about them. Could care less that they will go back to their five star hotel, have a drink at world class prices, and reminisce about their day. All before retiring to their five star rooms with upturned beds and CNN. He paid his check, and stood to leave, the beer having a mild effect. His ears zoomed in on the foreigners as he passed by their table because no matter how foreign they were to him and this land, they were still something closer to home than he’s been in a while. Like his USA today, they brought comfort and discontent. He met the woman in front of the five star hotel. No, he wasn’t staying there. Just a convenient place for her taxi to stop on the way to their home across town. He wondered how to explain his beer breath. Especially after Friday night. When the cab stopped, he opened the back seat door to find her leaning on the opposite door. She wanting to keep her own breath away, not wanting to share a weakness. This is how it goes. The 30 minute ride home was filled music from the cab’s radio highlighted on occasion with polite conversation. ...

The late spring sun casts uneven shadows across her dining room table. She sits near the phone, expecting his call, with once warm tea her only companion. She’s been a widow for 35 years. She’s told herself she never wanted a companion during this time and maybe that was true. But today, with the warm summer evenings still weeks away, she feels alone. Even though she’s lived in this upscale retirement community home for 20 years, she’s never really moved in. There was no way to move in. How does one fit the contents of a Pacific Heights mansion into a nice but relatively small home? You don’t. So you either let go or become a pack rat and try to cram in everything you can. Sure, she sold the velvet wall covers, but how could she part with such classical furniture. Maybe someday she would move back into such an elegant mansion or one of her daughters would need it. No, there was no way she cold sell that stuff. She kept photos in a totally unorganized fashion and they could be found scattered throughout the house. She kept her late husband’s fishing rods from the 60s. Kept his tools. Kept some of his shirts. Basically she kept everything and even though money was not a problem, seldom updated items. Witness the 15inch non cable ready TV in the living room. Good enough to watch 60 minutes and an occasional Charlie Rose. Her mom died seven years ago at the age of 99. No one much cared, it was a small affair. Her oldest daughter came to the cemetery to watch the urn placed away. The daughter brought along he ex husband, she always liked him ok. It was three years later that her oldest daughter died too, ashes spread into the Pacific, at a special spot her husband used to drive the young family too. Drive them in that god awful pink Cadillac convertible, singing songs, waiting for the one way tunnel to open. Her youngest daughter made a heart in the sand on that day three years ago and said goodbye to her older sister. Her youngest daughter, in effect, had said goodbye to both of them years earlier. So, now her she sat, not sure what to do, waiting and not waiting for a phone call. The phone finally rings and it is her oldest daughter’s ex husband, calling on her birthday, like he always did. But he can’t talk long it seems, need to rush out with his new family. Promises to call again, tomorrow. He does, but no answer. He calls the next day, still no answer. There will never be an answer for she has died. Age? Plenty. _I first saw Berdeen on my wedding day, she sat in the back of the reception hall and stood up to give us a toast. She seemed warmed and pleasant, nothing like the impression I received from my then wife, her oldest, now deceased daughter. _ _I knew Berdeen for 16 years. I can’t say I liked her all that much, but she wasn’t all that bad to talk to from time to time. And after Mimi’s death in December 2001 I spoke with her twice a year. On the birthday and on the death day. Berdeen was the only person I could really talk to about Mimi, partly this is my fault, but mainly this is because we were both on somewhat equal footing. Not trying to comfort each other. Not afraid to talk about it. Maybe in a more selfish way, by talking about Mimi and her death, we were secretly telling each other we didn¡¯t blame each other. To let go of the guilt. To acknowledge to Mimi was amazing, but flawed. As we all are. _ _I will miss Berdeen. I will miss the connection to Mimi’s family. But we are all big boys now, aren’t we? _ ...

It started as a simple game at a bar. Friends wrote their fantasy on a scrap of paper, the paper shuffled, and then read aloud for everyone to hear. It was great fun, as everyone tried to guess who wanted a multi-way, who wanted to move to Hawaii, or who wanted to get rich. Then a simple one. “Jane”. And with that Jane blushed. People tried to guess who’s fantasy Jane was. Bob knew, because it was his, but he didn’t think anyone else could figure it out. He had a good poker face. Then he made eye contact with Jane, a flicker exchange, and she knew. Pete picked up on this started to talk just as Bob picked up the next scrap of paper. “Bob” it said. Bob looked at Jane, but she flicked a “wasn’t me look” and it wasn’t. But Jane was starting to think Bob would be a good fantasy. Especially after few 7 and 7s. Meanwhile, Bob was wondering who fantasized for him. No hints from the other woman at the table. So, he decided to ignore it and chatted up Jane. She was receptive and they found they had a lot in common. After a few drinks they decided to go back to Jane’s place and have some fun. They both felt a bit buzzed, but excited. They stopped at the restroom on the way out, better to relieve one self here. Bob was finished first and as he was waiting for Jane, Pete walked up, grabbed him, kissed him hard, and pulled his body close. Sometimes bodies react without owner intent and sometime bodies react to show owner intent. In this case both might be true. Bob met Pete’s passion with passion. Just as Jane exited from the ladies room. And this is how a simple bar game ended up with Bob making breakfast for three. ...

Fate led her to a strange place, with a burden she could not bear. It started out simple enough, a day away from the burbs and into the city for fun with an old friend from college. A boy then, maybe a man now, but always a boy in her mind. She arrived at their old lunch spot, a burrito shop in the mission. But he wasn’t there, and he was always early. Must be tied up in traffic she thought. 10 minutes passed, then 20, then 45. He wasn’t answering his cell phone, text messages equally ignored. Hunger took over and she ordered two fish tacos, scarfed them down, and wanted more. Tossing the wrapper in the trash and leaving through the side door she did not notice the man with his back to the wall stand and begin to follow her. What to do now, she thought. It was a beautiful day after all and she hadn’t been in the city for so long. So she decided to head down to the wharf, mingle with the tourists, see and be seen. Living in the burbs she didn’t get much male attention, at least from men her age. But here in the city she felt like she “fit” and she must admit she didn’t mind a look or two. And she was getting her share. She got lost in the crowd at the wharf, soaking up the sun, the fishy smell, and the action of people moving about. She realized she was dying in the burbs, that she needed to make a change. So right then, at that instant, she decided to leave her husband and move to the city. A snap decision, yes, but a final one. If the tacos were not so good, the sun not so bright, the attention not so warm, the same decision would have passed her like a warm wind. Months pass and she now lives alone in a flat in the city. A man has been courting her, but she’s not ready to be courted yet. Well, that what she says. In fact, she is more than ready to be courted, she damn well wants to give in, but she’s trying to do the right thing and wait a while until her divorce is final. Damn that Catholicism. One day she receives a call, it’s from the police. They ask her about her friend from college. Says they found his cell phone. She was the last incoming call, the last text message. In fact, she was the only number in the call history. That’s impossible, she thought, I only called him once a week or so and just to catch up. The police ask her is she knows where he is. She has no idea, thought maybe he just went non communicato. Wouldn’t be the first time. The police say they found his phone by the bridge. She’s a bit stunned, confused. Suddenly her world closed in, everything gets small, and all she can see is her hands. Worn hands. Too worn for a white collar girl. She remembers that day on the wharf and thinks of him. And wonders about her life transforming moment. And wonders about his. ...

The location was just outside the 5th ring road in the suburbs of Beijing which seems like a long ways away until you actually take a cab and go. Then you know it is a long ways away. The Beijing International Family Tennis tournament is sponsored by one of my wife’s closet friends. I hadn’t played tennis in months due to the way the game tortures both my ego and my back. But they needed someone to be the international and I was it. We arrived at 8:30am, plenty of time to loosen up for our 9:30am match. I warmed up a bit, played with our kids, and in general felt relaxed. There was a pretty young woman (a girl really but my conscience insists on calling her a woman) walking around in a tennis outfit practicing reading lines from a piece of paper. My guess was she didn’t really play tennis. Maybe it was the high heals that gave her away. At 9:30, I’m ready to play. But it seems there will be a little ceremony first. Four older men, well old men, make their way from a waiting room to one of the tennis courts. It’s maybe a 40 yard walk and they seem pretty relived to have found seats on the court. It’s the pretty young woman’s turn to talk and she reads from the text and smiles. I’m later told she flubbed many of the lines. I guess she isn’t going to make it as a spokesperson either. At least she looked good holding the mic. The crowd surrounds the court she speaks and there is occasional applause which to me seems random, and my son is flirting on a woman support staff holding a balloon. He’s successful and he has a shit eating grin on his face when he returns to me. As much as a three year old can have a shit eating grin. The speaking stops and two of the old men pair up with little girls for a game of doubles. The old men can somehow hit and return the ball. In fact they ain’t bad. Their lateral movement a bit slow. Maybe a walker would help. I get a little bored with the play, maybe I could go watch their dentures in water to liven things up. I see my wife has already left the court with our daughter, so I follow with our son. By 11:30am I’m pretty loosened up. This is when our 9:30am match starts. This is somewhat expected, the mistake would be to expect it to start on time. Having no expectations is a good way to get by in Beijing. Our opponent is a couple about our age, I want to say older, because they look older, but that’s simply because I haven’t yet adjusted to being the age that I am. They look pretty serious and focused. I feel not so serious and not so focused. I know my wife expects us to lose because she does not expect much of me. But that’s the funny thing about having no expectations, it makes it easy to exceed them, and I think I do. We start well and have the match in hand. It’s now after 12pm and our children have not ate or taken their nap yet. Our son decides to give us a hint that he’s tired and hungry. His hint consisted of screaming, pulling away from the Ayi, and running onto the court. My wife holds him, he then has to be physically separated from her so we can continue the match. Our daughter chimes in for a harmony of screaming and fussing. Rinse, repeat. We lose focus, we lose some games, and it seems we will lose the match. We ask the Ayi to take our son far away from the courts, at least far enough away so we can’t hear him screaming. Once quiet we regain our game. Like reaching the top of the hill on a bike. We win! That’s the good news, the bad news is we have to keep playing. We tell tournament organizer we are going for lunch, she says take your time. 30 minutes later she calls asking if we can play right away. Such is the level of organization. We finish our lunch and send the babies and Ayi to my father in law’s home for the rest of the afternoon. We go back to the courts and try to relax under a small canopy. For me I alternated between a Jonathan Kellerman novel (please, I never said I was “all that”) and my mp3 player. My wife talked and slept, mostly separately. Eventually it was out time to play. Our opponent: A middle age man and his 11 year old daughter. After we won the first game easily, my wife told me in all seriousness that we should hit for power for after all she is just a little girl and won’t be able to handle it. Ok, fine, I say. We play and we win the match easily. I figure we are done for the day and have to come back tomorrow, but no, the wonderful organizing committee (and it must be a committee at this point for no one person could create such a mess) decides we have an immediately following match. Ok, we say, why not, after two wins today we are feeling pretty good. My wife even giving me a sincere compliment or two. This third match starts out well and we win the first three games easily. The referee would later say he thought the other side would simply conceded, it was that easy. By some fluke we lost the fourth game. Weird. And then the next. And the next. And the next. Suddenly facing elimination we rose up and won two more games and then¡lost. Did I say our opponents were in their early 60s? And I’m not talking about those 60ish wonders with rock solid abs and a great shape. These two looked their age. And it was their 4th match of the day. No more compliments from the wife now. We took the bus back to town. I have my first ever pedicure. ...

Day two found us awake and me drinking instant coffee in our hotel room. Packing was easy, as we did not unpack. Finding the check in counter for our flight to Phuket, however, was far from easy. Well, it started easy enough. We recrossed the walkway into the Bangkok Airport and followed the signs for domestic departures. After about a five minute walk we finally found some check in lines, but none for Thai Airlines. So we asked and were pointed back in the same direction we came. 46 minutes to takeoff. We found the counter, showed our passports and ticket and after an impressive display of indifference the clerk told us we had to go to the domestic terminal as this was the international check in. Being that we thought we were already in the domestic terminal, we asked for directions feeling a bit like the universe through haley’s lens. Turns out we have to take a shuttle bus and we get to the shuttle stop just as the bus leaves. The next one arrives in 15 minutes meaning we will be at serious risk of missing our flight so we call a taxi. How much, my wife asks. 300 baht. We bargain to 100 and get in for the two minute drive. We ask to be dropped off at the check in counters and driver nods but drops us off at the beginning of the terminal so he has a better chance to hook new passengers. And he informs us as we leave that it is 100 baht per person. Nice try, we pay him just the original 100. Flight to Phuket is quick with a quick meal. I read, wife sleeps. We touchdown around 11am and in the arrivals area we find a woman holding a sign with my name on it, plus three other names. Eventually us and another never to be seen again couple hop into a minivan and are driven to our respective hotels. Our hotel is awesome, if you like that mega-complex luxury resort thing. If you prefer a hut and eating what you can catch, well, more power to you. We will enjoy the pool, the overpriced food, the air conditioning, the water buckets to clean our sandy feet. We head to Patong for the nightlife of Phuket hoping it will be kind of like Bangkot but maybe less seedy but still fun. It also turns out to be family style pretty much, except for 50ish white men wearing too tight jeans walking around with young thai women. Not the best look. We find a restaurant overlooking the ocean and chow down. My wife says she’s saving room for some snacks later so she “only” orders three dishes. I get this tiger prawn contraption that was scrumptious if not too filling. We stroll around looking for something we can’t find and if we could find wouldn’t know what to do with, so we head back to the hotel at 10:30pm, exhausted. Sleep comes¡eventually. ...