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They say we have three loves in this life. Our first love, our great love, and out last love. May we all be so lucky. Dinner was done; tonight’s menu was brown rice with slightly fried tofu, light on the oil please. They washed the dishes together, the rice pot worn through the Teflon, the plates that lost their shine a generation ago, the frayed dishtowel. She washed, he dried. She liked the feeling of warm water on her hands, the slippery feeling of the soap, and especially making something clean that once was dirty. Sometimes she ran the water hot, too hot, but just for a second, just to feel what it could be. He liked watching her, taking each dish as she finished scrubbing them, and putting them away. He didn’t care about the worn cabinets, the stained linoleum, or the thin walls. He was happy, young, and in love. They went for a post dinner walk and talked. He shared his dreams and talked too much about work. She shared memories of her childhood, riding to the beach in her father’s pink Cadillac. She was careful not to talk too much about her past, but just enough to be genuine. She loved him very much. This scared the shit out of her and it took all her will not to leave him. After the walk, the showered, made love, and showed again. They settled in front of the TV but before he could turn it on she asked him to wait, she wanted to draw his picture. She disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a single piece of sketching paper. She sketched his face in pencil. Filling in the roman nose, the parted hair, the long face. The drawing came to her fast and good. She showed it to him; he was marginally impressed and kissed her for it. She pulled back a bit too quickly and told him it was just something she had to do. She returned to the bedroom, grabbed the folder from which she took the paper, and went to the bathroom. She sat on the toilet, pulled on the picture of the other. She recognized the similarities between the two, even though one was a strapping 6'2" red head and the other a wirely 5'8" brown hair. It was all in their faces, or at least the way she saw their faces. A single tear fell from her left eye, she wiped it, leaving a slight smudge on the paper. Then a single tear on the right eye, and another smudge. She put the drawings away, flushed, and that was that. Many years later the brown hair found the picture of the red hair and he understood. He understood that: We have three loves in this life. Our first love, our great love, and out last love. May we all be so lucky ...

I have a confession to make. But I will not bare it until this entry is complete. The other night, as I sat in the Kempinski beer garden, one 50 kuai homebrew in me, my eyes start to wander. The Kempinski is a bit upscale place – for a beer garden that is – and one of the attractions is the beautiful women who come there. There is something about a stunning woman with a half liter draft in one hand and a sausage in the other that does wonders for my disposition. On this particular night, I spot two girls that I fancy. One straight ahead of me, and one to my right at about 15 degrees. We form the perfect triangle, or so I fantasize. I try to figure out which men they are with. The one straight ahead is at a table with another woman and two men. No one seems super friendly; maybe they are real couples. The one to my right has a young buck next to her but they do not seem like a couple. He seems more like a watchdog. My wife, sitting at my side, is aware of my wandering eyes and finds it harmless, if slightly annoying. The one straight ahead of me gets up and walks right past me. Too tall, I think. So I settle on the one to the right, really find her cute, and notice that she is not afraid to look at me. While my wife is in the restroom we exchange a few glances. “Hey, friend, ni hao!” I hear. No, it’s not that voice. It’s about a 45 year old man who I didn’t notice before but is sitting in between me and the girl. I smile at him, he’s clearly drunk. He thought I was looking at him, I guess. He says to me, “Hey, join us.” I smile, and say sure, and slide our small table next to his. He has three comrades, all fit men in their mid 40s, with him. He asks me where I’m from, I tell him. He says he can tell that I am always happy. I mutter that he’s a damn fool. He wants to drink more so he buys a round of 100 kuai drafts for the table, myself included. At this point my wife returns, whispers that I am about as close as I will get to the one I fancy, and sits down. My wife has the advantage of speaking Chinese and also the advantage of understanding what is not said. She quickly ascertains that the friendly man has a military position of some importance. His friends at the table try to deflect the conversation a little. The one at my right, with gray sideburns, tells me he flew to Chicago two days after 9/11 which I thought no one did. We drank and toasted each other. At one point my wife let them know it was really the cute girl who caught my eye. This causes the friendly man to call her by name and invite her to the table. She was a bit embarrassed but sat with us a bit, only to get up and go inside to listen to the band. At the end of the night, the friendly man had to be talked into leaving by his friends. He paid for the entire bill, including what we had before knowing him. I watch them all leave, including the girl, and wonder who she is with, not wanting to face the truth. I turned to my wife and said, “that girl was damn cute”. So, here is my confession: I read magazines from back to front. Why? It’s safer than books. ...

After hitting snooze on my cell phone two times, I drag myself out of bed, tired as tired gets. I grab my socks which lie on floor – an effort to ward off mosquitoes – and step into the hallway. I glance in the small room where my wife is sleeping with our two small children. This morning’s arrangement – wife on floor, 4 year old next to her, two year old on the top bunk. In the bathroom, I drop my smelly socks into the hamper and grab my electric razor. I hate shaving. I really hate fucking shaving. Shave on Monday, more hair on Tuesday. Got to shave again. What I really don’t like about it is it takes a long time, isn’t terribly comfortable, and I’m lousy at it. I don’t do lousy if I can avoid it. I shower, which I’m told takes as long as an elephant and with similar water sounds. It makes me wonder how an elephant would fit in this shower. And once in, would the elephant face the water trunk first or butt first? I leave the bathroom, step into the hall, still a bit wet. I glance down the stairs in an effort to prevent the ayi from seeing my half naked body but secretly hoping she will. I linger a step longer than needed, then find myself in the bedroom. Flip on CNN, make sure the world is not in danger of collapse. I started this after 9/11. CNN is has it’s “world sports” show on, which roughly translates to “sports I don’t care a shit about” so I flip to CNBC which is giving an Austrian stock market update. Such are my news choices every morning as I get dressed. I can’t find what I want to wear. First, all my pants except one pair are too warm for a Beijing summer. Second, all my pants require a dark shirt and I don’t have many of these and of those that I do have, they all have round little stains on them. They look like cum stains, but I’m pretty damn sure it ain’t that unless the ayi has been having more fun washing my clothes than she lets on. Clothes settled, I make my way down the stairs, my knees showing the mileage of my running. I slip on my shoes, make my way past the ayi room – quick lateral vision – and out the door. Flag down a taxi, taxi driver says “qu nar?” meaning, “go where?”. I tell him zhichun lu, to which he responds “nar?” with a befuddled tone. I repeat. He repeats. I mention the larger area, he laughs, and says “ah, zhichun lu” and drives away. This happens almost every day. I always sit in the back of the cabs because the drivers tend to smell and I’m one of those folks who walks around with a personal space bubble. I get to my office, it’s 7:15. I make the long walk to my office, past rows and rows of empty cubicles. No one is around but the ayis who are constantly cleaning. I unlock my office door, skim the 60 emails in my inbox and see who it is I am talking to this morning. I put on my headset, click to call, and we have liftoff. ...

Exactly one year ago today I felt I was dying. Was convinced of it. She took a final drag from her cigarette, flipped the butt away, stood up, and walked away. Behind her was her childhood house, inside her mother was preparing dinner, her older brother was playing on the computer, and her father was taking a nap. It was a normal summer afternoon. But for her, she was leaving, getting on that bus, moving to the big city, and never returning. She reached the corner and didn’t look back. At 16 she was old enough to know better, but she told herself lies and allowed herself to be lied too. She lied down with men who gave her a place to live and nice things to wear and made her feel like an adult. She knew these men were using her but the lie was easier than the truth so the lie won. At 18 she found herself on the streets again, the last man growing tired of her. She knew she could find another, maybe a foreigner this time who would think her naïve, but she was tired on living on others. She got herself a job at the 711 in her neighborhood. At first the girls there did not trust her, thought she was a bit of a slut, and she could not disagree. But month after month she never missed a shift and she took all the extra hours she could get. She moved from the room she shared with six girls two just a single roommate and then a small flat of her own. She spent afternoons looking for discarded things to decorate her humble flat with. She was patient and careful about what she brought home. The other girls at the 711 grew to respect her. One day her supervisor introduced her to a man, thinking she must be lonely. She resisted, she was done with men. But the man persisted, was charming in a puppy dog kind of way, and she relented to a date of cherries and ice cream at the city park. A funny thing happened on that date. She laughed. She flat out giggled. This 18 year old woman was a girl again. She allowed herself to be silly. Making an ice cream mustache on her face. Tossing cherries into the ear and plucking them with her mouth. She hadn’t felt this much alive, this much like a child since she was 14 and that awful uncle that she liked came by. So she had a beau. Everyone could tell from the smile on her face. She floated at work and everyone was happy for her. One day, however, her supervisor let it slip that she had been a loose woman. Let it slip to the worst possible person. Maybe she let the new slip on purpose, so envious of love as some are, maybe it was purely an accident. We will never know. The beau was crushed and rushed to the 711 and confronted the girl. Yelled at her. Called her vile names. Moved towards her. And then her anger came. She rushed at him. The other girls held her back. Then he swung at her, missing wildly. The other girls dragged her out the back door. She sat on the stoop and cried. She sat on the stoop. Lit a cigarette. Smoked it slow. She took a final drag from the cigarette, flipped the butt away, and stood up, and walked away. Tears dry, she made it to the corner and didn’t look back. For the first time in a year, I do not feel like I am dying. ...

The young men are playing basketball on the blacktop. The sun is strong and their shirts are off. Their game is athletic but lacks skill. I feel I could take them. Then my four year old son and two year old daughter take off their shirts and wander onto the blacktop. Fantasy of past athletic mediocrity deferred, I follow them, now being a father, now a bit worried they will wander onto the court and get run over. They make friends with a Chinese boy, maybe 17, who is playing by himself. My son, ever charming, smiles and the boy rolls him the ball. The ball is about half the size of my son and he has hard enough time lifting it, not to mention shooting it. I wander over, casual like, but dying to bury a jumper from the top of the key. Show my skill. I reach the court, “accidently” find myself in position to grab the ball. I bounce the ball a few times, it feels good, like a lost friend. I spin once, then the other way, then I fire my step back jumper from the top of the key. If it wasn’t for gravity I would have missed the ground. Next to the basketball courts is a running track, an oval. My kids follow me, and we race along the track. My daughter, even though she is 17 months younger than her brother, runs with a grace he will never have. She’s light on her feet and floats. My son is a plodder. He would be good in mud. Along the side of the track is a drainage ditch. It mirrors the oval running track, a few feet inside. The drainage ditch is covered, in spots, with a cement filter, allowing water to get through but not a whole lot else. This being China, the cover is in ill repair, broken with jagged edges, with yard long gaps someone could just walk into. My son notices this and says to me, “baba, look it’s broken” pointing at a piece of the cover. He’s gleeful. He’s always gleeful. I tell him, that no, the piece that is there isn’t broken. It’s the strong piece. The piece that’s missing is the one that broke. Broke for none to see. I turn my head as to not ruin his glee. ...

She looks down at her cosmopolitan, takes the smallest of sips, and then steps back onto the crowded space in front of the bar where some folks are dancing. A young man comes up to her, they start to move together, her rhythm light and natural. His rhythm is rougher but meeting hers. She is not interested in this man, and will tell him so directly after the dance. She is aware of two men watching her from the shadows, one is her husband. She is not interested in him tonight either, but plays to him during the dance, in order to pacify him and to make sure the man she is interested in notices her. But she not need to worry that he would notice her. He noticed her right away. It was the drink that gave her away. What was she doing in Beijing again? Did she know he was here? How could she, he thought. He was growing increasingly uncomfortable and suggested to his date that they leave, blow this place for some place a bit more quiet. His date said sure, but she wanted to finish her ginger ale first. He could not stand it, the pressure building inside, as he watched her dance with that young man. While the young man was quite striking he was of no concern to him, his main concern was his emotions. He was losing control of them. His heart was pounding. He would risk it all for this woman. When he saw her husband sipping on a Hogarden, he wondered for a second what he though of her dancing with another man, but it was only a fleeting concern. His main concern was his own, now out of control emotions. The song ended, she whispered “thanks, but I need to dance with my husband now” to the young stud and he was dispatched. He would be fine. She spun and smiled in the direction of the man she was really interested in, then gave her husband a flirtatious glance and whispered “dance with me” while pulling him forward. It was all to impress him. She was spinning. He husband came onto the floor and danced with her. The husband was happy. She thought he danced like a fish. For that matter her husband’s hands on her had lately felt like a dead fish. She thought of the other man and smiled and moved in her light and passionate way. The man who watched her was overcome with anxiety, a nervousness that wouldn’t let go. He stood up, told his date he would be right back, and stepped outside, hoping the cold air would settle his nerves. Mainly, it just felt cold. Zero is zero. He stepped back inside just as the women was walking past with her husband. He visibly gasped. He froze unable to move or acknowledge her. But it appeared she didn’t notice him and she kept going, out the door. He stood there, shaking, wishing he had a cigarette. After a minute or two, he pulled himself together and went inside. His date had finished her ginger ale and they left for that quiet place. After making love to her husband –she banged him hard while thinking of the other man– she rolled over and smiled. Of course she saw the man on her way out, and from the look on his face she knew she still had it. Still had him. And he would be hers once again. ...

I feel small fingers poking my arm and somewhere in the recess of sleep I hear “daddy, daddy” and I roll over. My eyes lift like tire irons and my vision is still shaky from the night before. I see my little boy holding his spiderman toothbrush, ready for me to brush his teeth. I do the best I can to sit up, feeling my stomach go “slosh”, and I take the brush from him. I just want to sleep. To die really, but sleep would be ok. I aim for his mouth, ask him to open it, and do I try to brush side to side. He likes the part when I brush his tongue and is eager to get to that part. So am I, for it will mean we are finished. Just as we do finish, my daughter comes in, with her Batman toothbrush, ready to be brushed too. Finally they are gone and I am left alone to sleep in my cold bed. I hear the ayi playing with them downstairs. My wife is in a bed somewhere, but not this one. My mind shifts to work, as it often does, and I can’t shut it off. I used to think about technology things – how to write this code or solve this problem – but now mainly I think about people. And I bitch. My bitch today is my boss promoted someone to be a manager of managers obviously before he was ready and at the same time is holding me back. Then I smile at a small epiphany. My boss is fucking the new, male, manager of mangers. Neither have girlfriends and they both have begun dressing better recently, so there is no better conclusion. Not that I care do I, I just hope they use gel so they are not constipated in the restroom and I have to ultimately put up with their smell. With this happy thought I am off to sleep for a few more hours and when I awake the house is quiet. I am alone. I turn on the TV. CNN. Wow, this is living. I stumble out of bed and smell the cigarettes on my shirt. My underwear is torn in the crotch and I wonder if I wore it our or pulled on it last night. There are flecks of blood on my tightie whities. I brush my teeth. I make coffee and down three cups and start to feel awake. It then starts to come back to me, this night before. It hits me in waves, I pick up my cell phone, and make a call. “Honey, we got to talk” ...

small crimes part 2 I complain about sleeping alone but truth be told I prefer it. I look for reasons to feel persecuted and then mope when I am. I tell my coworkers my family is my number one priority but my family knows work is. I have my best thoughts when running but forget them by the time I shower. I would have an affair if I could speak the language. My style is no style because I can’t be bothered. I want to care but don’t. I took my son for a happy meal because I wanted to eat his burger. I make love to get off. I pretend to be warm hearted. I sometimes wear a hat instead of showing in the morning. I sleep at home most nights. I would watch more porn if I had more time. My emotions are distant from those close to me and from myself too. I don’t lie unless it really matters. But, I don’t know truth from fiction half the time. My only fear is getting caught. I often want to run away but I don’t know where I’d go. I think lots of folks are stupid. I pretend to be good at what I do. Happiness is a concept I have no concept of. ...

She woke up sprawled on the coach, her throat sore, the tv tuned to cspan. It was 10am. She dragged her frail body of the coach, walked to the sink, inspected the tipped over ice cream container and put it back into the freezer. She reached for a cigarette and nicked her finger on the matchbook staple. She read the back of the cereal box with her coffee but ate no cereal. Coffee down, cigarette stubbed, she took a shower hot enough to scold must skin. Then a quick switch to cold just for the feeling; wondering if it would make her heart flutter again. She dressed and since she had a date – a real lunch date today – she put on her dead husband’s unwashed tee-shirt under the baggy knit sweater. She got in her beat up old Corolla and drove to Longs, the glorified drug store. She picked up her prescription refill even though she had at least a six month supply at home for previous hoarding and self medicating. She paid at the pharmacy counter. On her walk to the front exit she grabbed a purse without breaking stride and placed it into her own oversized purse. She did it so smoothly and effortlessly that it reminded herself of when she used to dance for papa. Back before she became a woman and papa died. She arrived home, took the stolen purse out of her bag, and placed $5 in it. She placed the stolen purse with the others, about 15 in total, and left for her lunch date. Bob was younger than her and seemed attracted to her strangeness. He was a bit too eager and somehow did not give out hardly any sexual vibes, which suited her just fine. He had a meatball sandwich. She had a cup of minestrone soup that she took occasional sips out of. With Bob, it wasn’t hard for her to see him as a dog, hunched over and sticking his mouth in the bowl. Bob didn’t seem to notice her not eating and just nodded at her frantic talk. He asked her what she was doing that afternoon and at first she thought he wanted to have some adult play time. But she quickly realized he was just making talk and the image of him dry humping her leg was only fleeting. She told him she wanted to drop some stuff off at Goodwill and that she might catch a move. Her drive home from lunch can only be described as frantic. For she was frantic and didn’t know why. Hyper, crazy, wanting to get home as fast as possible but not knowing why. Chain smoking just because she could. This was not unusual. She got home, went to her closet and put all the stolen purses in a big garbage bag. She got back in her car, starting to relax, and drove to the Goodwill drop off. The attendant smiled at her, asked what she had today, and took the garbage bag. The attendant inspected the purses, each with the $5 bill inside, and said thanks. The woman drove home feeling relaxed thinking maybe she would sleep ok for once. ...

I don’t eat on Tuesdays. Let me explain. Two months ago my doctor said I was obese. I wasn’t quite sure what this meant outside of being fat which I already knew I was. He explained to me, that at my age, obesity can lead to chronic health problems. Like the farts, I’m thinking. He reads my mind, says, no like diabetes. Heart disease. I think diabetes and think about giving myself an insulin shot and that scares me. So when I get home, I google obesity. It says 100 pounds over weight. I’m 5'7", 275, so I think I need to get down to 175. I call the doc and ask if 175 would be ok. He says, yes of course, but…but I hang up on him before he can finish. Probably wants me to go on some type of diet. But I’ve figured it out, pretty much. I need to lose 100 pounds, or about 35% of my current body weight. Each day of the week I consume, on average, 1/7 or 15% of my weekly calories. So, there, skip a day and I lost the weight. Ok, I know what you are thinking, 15% is a long ways from 35%. I had the same thought at first. But then, I figured, once I lost the first 25 pounds I would only have 75 more to go. Then all of a sudden the 35% is down to 25%. See where I’m going with this? Well, I didn’t work out all the details but I figure I can lose those 100 pounds easy enough by skipping Tuesdays. Convinced? Ok, ok. I understand, you must think I am crazy. Why Tuesdays? How about Mondays or Sundays? Well, Monday’s just suck because it’s the beginning of a work week and if you can’t scarf down a hamburger or three then you are bound to march into your boss’s office and split his head open with a baseball bat. Or a three hole punch. Sometimes one has to improvise. But I digress. Sundays are also out because you are at the in-laws and while you hate the honey baked ham with that stupid pineapple on top, you smile and grin because you want to get some that night. Not that it will help you get some, but if you skip this meal then you will for sure not get any. Wednesdays, well this is personal. There is a girl I see for lunch from time to time and that time is always a Wednesdays. My wife doesn’t know about this girl and this girl doesn’t know about my wife but I’m sure I also don’t know about her husband either. This occasional Wednesday includes a meal and I am not going to pass it up. Thursdays were a candidate. I meet my father at the rest home for breakfast. Well, he’s already there so it’s not like we really meet there. He’s been living there for six years, ever since Mom died and there was no one left to take care of him. Anyway, he’s getting more and more senile and I think I could get away with just sipping coffee and nodding but what kind of son would that make me? Not that by eating his scrambled eggs I am a good son, but he seems to like it as he tells me about coming home from the war and how no one knew his name except for Mom. Friday’s is boys night out, so that’s an obvious day I have to eat. Truth be told there hasn’t been a boys night in a while and it often consist of me with a papa johns pizza in front of the tv watching the amazing race. But for the off chance there is a boys night, I am ready. This leaves Saturdays and I don’t have to tell you why I don’t skip this day, do I? Because of that foul ham, you fool. I need to have something I like. And there it is. I skip Tuesdays. ...