self pity

A year ago, a late night like this would be pretty standard. S would have been there too. We would have eaten too much Indian takeout vindaloo. She would swing by at some hour of the night, announcing quitting-time: "Okay Poops, let's get out of here." And that was a real comfort to have at least one person care that I shouldn't squander any more time at that place. She would have watched as I wrap up, "Five minutes" turning into fifteen, shuffling papers, sending last minute emails. And then we would have said goodbye to Sam downstairs and walked the long way home.

Now, without anyone to insist on takeout curry, all I had to eat the entire day was a piece of chocolate and four cups of coffee. And I had stayed beyond the hours of respectability, now compelled to compensate for my hungry and lonely state by taking a detour at a 2.a.m. dining spot before going home. The kitchen was near closing time. I told the waitress about my day, that I was hungry, that I would appreciate if she could bring me something good to eat and drink. It was pathetic how hungry I was for actual conversation, and she might have felt pity for me.

I took a large gulp of the bitter. She brought Devils on Horseback which I ate too fast, burning my tongue on the hot fruit. It was only halfway through the Halibut that I started to feel like myself again. The waitress asked if I wanted dessert, and out of kindness probably would have kept some of the tired kitchen staff past close. I said no. It was late and time to go home.

Chelsea

I stopped by the Japanese mini-market that recently opened up in my neighborhood where I picked up Yakult and Chelsea scotch candies, excited in particular about the latter. I haven't had this since childhood.

It was probably one of the first instances of brand awareness for me, familiar with the packaging from so young that I believed it to be Taiwanese. My sister and I used to enunciate the unstressed A, as in: "Hey gimme some Chelsee-ahs!" And for some reason, just this little detail fills me with delight and a little bit of shame at just what a dumb kid I was. Anyway, these candies abounded. Mama always had a ready supply in her purse.

And yet, when I showed this pack to mama last week, it elicited recognition and a small and unimpressed smile: "Oh yes. These are very good candies. They sell them at Jin San." I wonder when she stopped getting them.

F is for Fake

I haven't seen them since college. And even then, we scarcely made effort to become chums. So I wondered if they also felt it was awkward or forced. I found myself saying things I didn't intend, revealing more than was appropriate, and behaving in a manner unlike myself. It was inexplicable this desire, even now, for approval. And if I never saw or spoke to them again, I needed them to leave the evening with the belief that Chiik is worth knowing. Perhaps the reason why I skipped out on reunion this week was the inability to face this pressure on a large scale--becoming a puffed-up caricature, a constructed version of oneself.