Doodles

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. ...

As we enter the pseudo fast food restaurant, my son races towards ice cream freezer. I let him run to it and I grab a table with my wife and daughter. Once upon the freezer, he turns and looks back at no one in particular and says he wants ice cream now. When he sees me, he says “no bobie” for he knows I will not allow ice cream before dinner. His “no bobbie” went up an octave when I say, “Dinner first, then ice cream”. A moment later my son is sitting at our table. Our nanny is feeding him spoonfuls of ice cream while I look over the menu. My wife isn’t eating this evening and suggests oven spaghetti for our daughter. I get the hamburger and that is that. I had suggested the little family night as we haven’t been spending a lot of time as a unit lately. I’ve been accused of being a workaholic, which I think is pretty much true. Combine this with my recent fondness for alcohol and other forms of self gratification and you don’t have a lot of family time. Not to mention my wife’s passion for gambling and shall we say “team building”. Taking the nanny on this little family night out seems a bit out of place, maybe excessive, but at least my wife did not bring along the second nanny. The food takes a while to arrive, especially the oven spaghetti. My daughter wants some of the ice cream and my son screams because he doesn’t want to share. Occasionally the nanny sneaks her a bit or two. I’ve been thinking the nanny has been looking a bit more slutty lately. And I can’t say I mind all that much. After all I spend more time with her than my wife these days. An image from the night before: her leaning over the bed, a panty around an ankle, and nothing more. My wife starts to tell me about her day. Seems her commission will be impossible to achieve this quarter. The margins are just impossible. She goes on to tell me about some small scale, basically routine black market deal that goes on with her sales force. I tell her that someone who works for me got run over by a train today. He’s dead. I am not kidding. She nods and then continues with a story about a customer who is mad at her and that she really can’t blame him. I fondle a fry as she goes on. I’m listening, I suppose. Lot’s of head nods, lots of “yeas”. My girlfriend walks into the restaurant just as the oven spaghetti arrives. I haven’t seen her since lunch when I left her on the bed to untie herself. I am not surprised to see her now. She’s been playing this game for a while. She walks past my table, brushes her left breast against my left bicep, and makes her way behind me. She has my full attention. So to speak. My son finishes his pint of ice cream; my daughter takes a few bites of the oven spaghetti and is done. My wife twiddles the spaghetti on a spoon but doesn’t eat. My son and daughter run off. The nanny glances at me and then is off to chase them. I take a few bites of the spaghetti. My wife goes to the counter to get a doggie bag giving my girlfriend a chance to sneak up behind me and slip her hand into my crack. Then she’s gone. I’m definitely going to bring my lunch tomorrow. We pack up the leftovers. I tell my wife that this family time was good. That we should do more things as a family. She looks away and walks off. ...

Hate is a strong word, one that should not be used lightly. Real hate is not the other side of love. Real hate is not the product of fear. Real hate is not the unknown. Real hate is not bounded by time. No, real hate is as pure as the last breath you take. I don’t hate much in life but I hate this: Broccoli. I’m not sure when the hate started, but I’m sure it was before the age of five, when one of my older brothers said “Hey, want something really yummy?” and when I said “Yes!” expecting candy or some such thing I was instead treated to the most foul smelling and tasting thing I could imagine. No treat. A trick. For my entire childhood, the mere smell of broccoli would make me gag. To take a bite was almost more than I could manage, my throat and stomach would start to enter convulsions. I kid you not. My hate festered in a different age. This was not exactly the age of children. All food on the plate had to be eaten. No exceptions. Don’t want to eat that broccoli, eh? Well you can’t have anything else either then. See you at breakfast. Thanks for coming. If my dad was at the table there was no negotiation at all. For some reason, my Mom mostly served broccoli when my Dad was at work (maybe my Dad hated it too?) giving me a bit more wiggle room. I tried feeding it to the dog under the table. All this lead too was me having to eat once dogged licked broccoli. I tried spreading the broccoli into other dishes to dilute the flavor only to ruin the flavor of all. I offered my little brother the same “treat” offered me but he was already too wise. Year after year, week after week, my mom would serve broccoli. I never got used to it. I hated it. I swore I would never, ever, never ever, eat it when I grew up. And I haven’t. Not once. As an adult, in the absence of brocolii, I was less aware of my hate. It would rise up from time to time. Such as the time I tried a veggie burrito which was really a broccoli burrito. Blasphemy. Now the mere smell of broccoli doesn’t cause me to puke. I can almost tolerate it. I’ve stopped asking waiters if side of vegetables contained broccoli. When some of the broccoli bits spilled onto my mash potatoes or pork chop, I now longer refuse to take a bite, I simply brush off the bits. I like to think I have matured. But make not mistake, I still hate it. Recently, I spent the night at my parents. My mom made dinner and was sure to cook my favorites. And yes, she did make broccoli. As she got ready to scoop some onto my plate, I said “I think I’ll pass” and she didn’t blink an eye. How nice to be old. ...

When he’s mad, I know he’s mad When he’s hungry, I know he’s hungry When he’s tired, I know he’s tired When he’s happy, I’m happy He thinks my clumsiness is funny He’s looks just like me, except happy He doesn’t come home drunk at 4am and obsess He doesn’t question my work He has no fear except for dogs He has confidence except for peeing in a pot He runs to me when I come home for work His eyes light up when he smiles His feet make a pitter patter sound on our wood floor ...

The Outsider sat on the deck and watched the happy people walk past. When he was five he was told to go play with the boys and he cried and ran to his mother. When he was eight he was told to be more aggressive. When he was 10 he was told he had a facial tick that needed physical therapy. When he was 12 he was told he should have more friends. When he was 15 he was told he should not fall in love too early. When he was 18 he was asked by his mom if he was on drugs. When he was 22 it was suggested he be more outgoing. When he was 24 he was told to smile more. When he was 28 he was asked what was wrong with him, why didnt he say hi. When he was 32 he was told he was an introvert. When he was 35 he was told to practice his presentation skills. When he was 38 he was told to tell more jokes. When he was 40 he was told to eat lunch with people more often. At first the Outsider did not know he was different than others. At five he knew the other boys did not like to play with him. At eight he realized he wasnt as aggressive as other boys; he tried but he could never reach their level. At 10 he was hoping physical therapy would fix his tick and he wouldnt feel so self conscious about it but he found out all the therapist wanted to do was play silly games involving dolls. At 12 he had a best friend and was happy. At 15 he was getting laid every day and was, well, really happy. By the time he was 18 he had stopped taking drugs. At 22 he was as lonely as lonely is. At 24 he was deliriously happy but no one could tell. At 28 he had no idea what social order was. At 32 he was starting realize the depth of his pain. At 35 he was given an award for a presentation. At 38 his humor was developed and adult for those who would to listen. At 40 all he wanted to do was run. The Outsider was born without an inner volume control. This was manifested in observable physical attributes like his hearing. He could hear noises from far away and at low volume. This was a benefit and a curse, it was hard for him to find quiet. When he spoke few could hear him, his volume was way too low. Even though he knew it was low he could do nothing substantial about it, he always fell back into his normal speaking voice. The non physical volume control is that inner social volume control which tells you how sharp a comment should be or how light one should be. This meant his words could sound harsh when he was trying to be light or that he would take light messages from others in a harsh way. After years of trying he only learned tricks to mask his lack of volume control, but never the ability to adjust it. One of the great things about getting older is you care less about what others think. Sure, it gets tiring and frustrating to receive constant messages that you should be someone different but at 40 The Outsider pretty much knew who he was. And damn them all if they couldnt accept him as such. The Son watched The Man tie his shoes, put on his backpack, and go to work. The Son very much wanted to be like The Man. One day The Son was told he was going to school and was given a back pack of his own. The Son was so excited. He went to school and while all the other little boys and girls screamed for their mommies he gleefully played. He was so excited to be at school, with his own little backpack, and a bunch of new friends to play with. By 11am that first day he was exhausted and needed to take a nap. He asked for The Mom but she was not around. He cried and eventually slept. He awoke, looking for The Mom but she was not there. He felt abandoned. How could The Mom abandon him. Didnt she want to be with him as much as he with her. The next day The Son refused to go to school. The Mom said she would talk with the teacher. The Son said ok and brave boy that he was he faced it. That second day was worse from the first, he started missing The Mom from the get go and never got over it. The teacher would not let him play the way he wanted to. Said he was too short for the slide even though he wasnt. By the time he got home he was emotionally exhausted. The next day The Son refused to go to school again. The Mom said she would buy him candy. He still refused. Then The Mom said she would wait just outside the door. The Son reluctantly said ok and off to school they went. The Mom waited outside for a couple of minutes but then had to go to her own job. After 20 minutes of play, The Son ran outside looking for her and left broken hearted. The next day The Son refused and was carried to school. He was mad and screaming even though most of the other boys had gotten past this stage. The Son felt he would never get over it. He never ever, never ever, wanted to go to school again. The Outsider is an outsider in everything that he does. He compensates. He never fits in. Its not like being around other outsiders helps, he feels more outside. Hes broken in this way. But with the passage of time he can see this breakage is part of him. A part of him to accept, a part of him that didnt turn out the same as all the other kids. The Son will get over his fear of school, the Outsider will not get over his lack of volume control. He will not get over the way that he is, its his essence and what makes him special, even if no one understands it but him. ...

McDonalds are almost ubiquitous in Beijing and I’m at line in one of them. Well, what passes for a line anyway. It’s more like a gathering of folks who have no sense of personal space and are watching a full lunar eclipse. You push your way forward because you are being pushed from behind and not because you know when to move. You just know they serve hot food at the front and when you get there you will pay and take some. I want a big mac, some fries, and a chocolate shake. I will pass on the spicy chicken wings, it’s doesn’t seem right. I know I can point at these things on the picture menu which is used for foreigners and illiterate laborers, both of which Beijing has plenty of which. The illiterates are slightly more useful. Anyway, like the eclipse, the line move so slow it’s fast and before I know it, I’m at the front of the line. I point, grunt, and confirm that yes I only want one of each. I drop a one kuai note on the ground and reach down to pick it up. Without missing a beat the woman behind me orders an ice cream cone right over the top of me. And they serve her, and she’s waiting for her change, ice cream in hand, and I can’t stand up straight unless I want ice cream all over my back. You come to China because you fall in love with a Chinese woman but that’s a far cry from falling in love with the Chinese culture. Lines and lack of personal space are one of those things that drive us foreigners crazy, the only way to deal with it is to find the humor in it. Even if the humor is in ourselves. One day I’m at Starbucks waiting to order. It’s been a long day and it seems someone has been in my way all day. Finally, my turn. I take a step toward the counter when a middle aged man comes flying in and squeezes past me and orders. I’m pissed. Here I am in a place comfortable for Americans and even here I get cut in line. I wish I could say I reacted strong and stood my ground. But instead I just tossed my newspaper in front of him. He turned and in perfect English said, “Excuse me, were you in line?” The subway ticket line taught me the skill of using my elbows and the art of knowing when to use them. The skill is how to block people from cutting in on your left or your right and the art is knowing when someone is coming in order to block them. Once you have this down, it’s actually quite easy to get a ticket without being cut in front of. The line cutters don’t even mind being reminded but the boundary has to be set. Once onto the subway system you face an entirely different set of perils. The two most common, sometimes overlapping are the people with huge boxes of shit and the people who just up and stop moving. I think it’s the stoppers who mess things up the most. You will be coming down a flight or three of stairs when someone or two will just up and stop. You practically run over them and it takes some effort to slide around them because there simply isn’t space. People move like marbles down these stairs. The people will large boxes of shit I have more respect for but they take up a lot of room and they tend to move slow. I never even consider giving a helping hand. For some expats here the line thing and the personal space thing is a huge issue. The rant and rave and bitch and mown and call people rude and no manners. I feel this way from time to time, sometimes more than from time to time, but I think it’s wrong. It is what it is, this line cutting and lack of personal space. I have countless of these stories. At the book store, someone just walking right past the line to the cashier. At the airport a large group moving right past everyone and justifying it because there are so many of them. Watching people get nearly run over during a plane boarding. Watching a otherwise wise looking man try to force his way through everyone during the unloading of a plane. The strange thing is, I’m staring to feel the same way. Lines, they are for wimps. ...

I’m at SFO waiting for my flight to Seattle. I decided to kill some time and fight my hunger with a chicken soft taco. Always soft. And just get one, don’t want to eat too much and get fat. Always worried about these things. I wish I could just take a bite. I eat my taco in an exaggerated hunch back position. It is not a stretch to imagine me eating out of a bowl. The meat is good, a bit too artificially flavored, but for airport food good. I get up from the table, leaving my tray, take a few steps, and then it dawns on me. I’m not in Beijing. Here it’s rude not to pick up after yourself. So I spin back, grab my tray, and empty the remains in the trash. I still have 30 minutes to kill so I do the terminal walk. One end to the other. I touch the north end, turn around and come back. I cross a small shop stop and stop to look for gum. A 60ish dwarf of a woman is the cashier. She looks hard at me, I turn away and pretend to look at the magazines. She walks up to me and says “Vince, I can’t believe it”. She’s excited and in her own way happy. I turn, at first pretending not to hear her, waiting for her to speak again. She does. “Vince, it’s me, Tammie’s Mom”. I say, sorry, I don’t know what you are talking about and I turn and leave. I reach the gate, my heart pounding. Why should I be so shocked? This was her job 25 years ago, and she’s kept it. It just never dawned on me that I might see her again. And I can’t get that image out of my mind, of when she was 35, and Tammie walked in on her having sex with a future ex-husband. Riding him, all 5’ of her, the huge boobs bouncing. Stop it, I say, but my mind won’t let go. I think back to that time, when Tammie used to work at the airport with her Mom, coming three days a week after school. At first I would pick her up after work and take her home but after a while it became a hassle, a fight with my parents to do it. So I stopped and she found another airport worker to take her home. A 42 year old father of two. And he was banging her within a month. And I think, this is how I am, so self absorbed with my own trials that I ignore those I supposedly care about and they go get their needs satisfied elsewhere. It’s a pattern I repeat, over and over again. They announce my flight will be delayed by 2 hours. Yuck. What to do. I walk back to the small souvenir stop and when Tammie’s Mom takes a break I buy her a cup of coffee. And we talk. ...

She thought back just a few months ago. It was tax season in the US and she was doing taxes for the couple down the street. She was trying to start her own business and this was one of a handful of clients. The work was so easy it was difficult, and when the husband of the couple started to explain US tax law to her she just smiled and nodded. And resigned to quit. This was just absurd. She had an advanced degree in finance, was toward the top of her class at a major university, yet could not find a decent job. All the action was in Beijing these days anyway, why not return home and get in the middle of it. She knew she would be successful there. Just look at her younger brother, not as smart or charming yet he was living the life of a king. After five years of marriage to this American, things had slowed down. The say one has three loves in life. Your first love. Your great love. And your last love. She was pretty sure this was none of the three. Certainly not the great love. And god help her not the last. At first, he was interesting and charming and the beer amplified this. But then she stopped drinking the beer and his charm diminished and he just became someone in the bed next to her that from time to time smelled like a pint. Truth be told, it was his DUI that made her stop drinking and made her realize he had a problem. He wouldn’t acknowledge that going to the bar after work, slamming three drafts down, then driving home was anyone’s issue but out of control cops. So she let him continue and she stayed home and watched TV. The husband didn’t mind much when she left for Beijing to be the CFO for a well funded trading company. He didn’t understand all that stuff really, he just knew computers. After a week in Beijing she was starting to feel alive again, a weight lifted from her shoulders. Then her husband called and said he’d just been laid off and would be arriving in town the next day. Shit. He did arrive the next day, his suitcase hastily packed, she worrying that all the plants would die and the laundry half done. He was meticulous in what he did but lazy in doing it. Not a good combination. They slept together that night, in the side bedroom of her parent’s flat, and she woke up feeling that weight again. It was her job to cheer him up and show him around Beijing. She put on a good face for about a week but with his drinking and the late nights her work was beginning to suffer. She had to choose and she picked her job. He understood and didn’t even mind much. He was free to wander around Beijing and do as he pleased. A few days later he was enjoying the typical Beijing hutong 8 kuai lunch when he overhead a white guy talking what sounded like perfect Chinese to a young woman. He didn’t understand a word but knew they were flirting. And it was working. The white guy left with the girl. He sat there, along, thinking he must learn Chinese. Of course he didn’t learn Chinese, at 42 there is really no hope for that, but he did run into the guy the very next day. Turns out he was a 20 year old brit who was studying at the nearby university. Studying, yea, he thought. He would like to go back to school himself. He got to talking with the brit and they hit it off. If he was wiser and aware of such things he may have realized the brit was flirting on him too. They started going out at night, hitting the bars, while his wife worked late. The young brit was always good at warming up the young Chinese women. He like this. But what he really like was the beer. And he drank a lot. Almost every night up until 3am. He felt like he was in college again but this time he didn’t have to wake up and go to class. And no tests. Damn those tests. After about a month of this he realized he needed to get a job or at least seriously consider getting one. His wife was working like he had never seen her before. He considered opening an American restaurant. Now that would be a stereotype switch, wouldn’t it? But he didn’t realize this obvious switch in life’s stations; he was just trying to find a way in his new unemployed life. When he had about given up hope, he received an email from a former co-worker. Seems there was a job back in the States if he wanted it. All this time he was telling himself he was happy here, letting go for the first time in a long time. But when he got that offer he felt like a man again. Even performed like one for a few minutes. And got on a plane back to LA. His wife was glad to see him, well, erect again and was even more happy to see him go. Maybe this would be the end to their marriage, with him in the US and her here, but at least they weren’t pretending. No “I will always be with you” or “I love you today as much as ever”. Those sure sounds of impending doom. It was a simple peck on the forehead and a closing of the taxi door. The wife continued to stay with her parents, both retired university professors, and commuted daily to her downtown office building. One day, she stopped at home for lunch as she had a meeting in the area. She was surprised to find the 20 year old brit there, drinking tea and talking with her mother. Your mother is fascinating, the brit said, and he seemed to really mean it. How weird she thought, but she was happy her mother had found someone to talk to. In the states, at 38 she felt life 48, here she felt like 28 and it started to show. She started to dress hipper, she found an energy in her walk, she found she was starting to like herself again. One day the brit called and asked about her Mother, he was worried that she might be ill. She was ok, she said, just taking a few days in the countryside to enjoy some fresh air. The brit asked about her husband and it turned out the brit knew as much as she for he was emailing him almost everyday. She asked the brit what he did during summer break and he said odd jobs here and there, teach a little English like every other foreign student. She didn’t know why but she offered him a job right then, to teach English at her company even though she had never thought about it before. He started to come teach two days a week for small group lessons and 1:1s. When she saw him teaching, and laughing, with a younger female employee of hers she felt a strange surge through her. Ger a grip she said. After the first couple of weeks the interest in the training had died down a bit and one day no one showed up. The brit was told to go home, that they didn’t need him that day, so no pay. The brit was outraged and cursed his way out of the building. When she found out she called him on the phone, apologized, and said of course he would be paid. It’s just some of the local people don’t understand the principle of time the same way. She asked him to please continue teaching. He said he would. And she felt something let go inside of her. Relief? Joy? Whatever it was, the brit seemed to sense it and asked her to buy him a pizza at a favorite expat place, joking that she owned him at least that. She said sure. She went straight from work to the pizza place. She washed her face, pulled back her hair, left the sport jacket, and unbutton the top button on her blouse. Well, the top two buttons. She felt a bit flush. Get a grip, she said. She arrived at the pizza place and sat next to the brit, on the same side of the table as him. She did this without even thinking. They talked easy, bumped shoulders a bit, and laughed a lot. She noticed his small wrists, the V of his back, and they way his glasses tipped when he smiled. She was too old for this, but she had a crush. They headed for the nightclub next and danced. She undid one more button and got a sweat going. The brit took her close after one song and kissed her. Nice lips. They had a good time that night, and for many nights after that. The brit continued to visit her mother and exchange email with her husband. ...