Pregled posta

Marketing

Expecting.
3


A black New York Yankee’s cap and large dark framed glasses--I told her to look for them at the arrival gate. Though I also told her that it wasn’t necessary to pick me up from the airport, that I was fine with getting to her apartment on my own, she had insisted. “I appreciate it,” I said. In New York, Charlene had not even offered to. I got from JFK to Stonybrook on my own.

Ying was thinner than the photos. She wore a too large blue cardigan that hid her wrists and made it appear as if she was in a constant slouch. Underneath the sweater was a pale floral patterned dress that came down to her knees. She finished with brown boots. Sloppy but relaxed. California. She saw me before I saw her and waved as I was coming out of the gate.

I extended my hand out and she shook it. I thought it was an odd thing to do but it seemed natural. Waving back and simply saying “Hello” seemed not enough. And we were not familiar enough for a hug. What was I doing here?

“I”m Kevin,” I said.
“I know,” she said, “It’s been a while. You look much different from the last time I saw you.”

I had lost a lot of weight since my teenage years. Back then, I was rounder, baby fat not willing to let go of childhood yet. My mother and the girls at school teased my chipmunk cheeks. My mother pinched them whenever I feel asleep on the sofa while watching TV. After my second year of college, whenever she saw my sculpted face, relatively so, and put her hands around my arms to feel them she said, “You’re a man now. Handsome.”

“How was your flight?” Ying said. She brushed a few strands of hair that had fallen by her face behind her left ear. They were not pierced.
“It was shorter than I imagined. Nothing like the flight from Taiwan. I slept the entire way here.”
“Are you hungry? We can get something to eat around here if you’d like.”
“Let’s just go back to your place first. I still have to book a hotel later. How did you get here?”
“I took the subway.”
“You shouldn’t have bothered,” I said.
“Actually, I don’t have live too far from here. It’s only 15 minutes away.”
“I see.”
We walked through the airport to where the subway entrance was. It was inside the airport she told me. Outside, cars, vans and taxis dropped people off or picked them up. I had arrived in the middle of the afternoon and it was not so busy.

San Francisco was not as gray as New York. It reminded me of home, Hualien. In some ways. The blue sky. The sunshine. The casualness of the traffic and the way people dressed and moved. It was how California appeared to me in the movies.

Ying walked a step ahead of me, occasionally turning back to look over her shoulder as I dragged my luggage. One roller trailing behind me. One carry-on on my shoulder. The things inside would carry me through the month. Two weeks with Charlene became a week and a half last night. Now there was the rest of the time. I didnt’ tell Ying how long I was staying for. I imagined it’d only be a few days. I could change the ticket and go back home anytime I wanted.

The only things I left in New York was a pair of dress socks and underwear. I didn’t realize that I had left them underneath her desk until I was well over Utah.

“The weather is not much different than in Hualien,” I said.
“It isn’t. You’ll like it here.”
“I think I would. Do you remember much from when you use to live there?”
“Not really. We were there for only three years.”
Three years is a long time I thought to myself.
“You know, I don’t remember the time you visited. I’m not even sure if it happened. Your uncle and our parents always mention it whenever you come up.”
“They mention me?” She turned and waited for me to catch up. We were taking the escalator down to the station entrance.
“Once in a while.” Had I said something wrong? Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it.

We didn’t talk the rest of the way. On the subway, her phone rang and she took the time to respond to the messages.

“I talked to my roommates. They’re fine with you staying for a few days so you don’t have to feel so rushed. They’re nice people.”
“We’ll see,” I said, “I mean about staying.”

I hadn’t noticed we automatically talked in English. It felt natural. Being here, my Mandarin seemed out of place. I hadn’t felt this way when I was Charlene. She hated talking to me in English unless she had to. And she was always self-conscious of her accent, taking time to unfurl each word with full precision as if it to give them more weight--therefore, however, musn’t, stay here, why do you have to go, please leave. I had none.

We got off the subway a few minutes later. We call it the BART, she said. She pointed out her stop on the map after we exited the ticketing gates. Balboa Park. It’s easy to find she said, there isn’t too much around here, but you can go here and here, she pointed at the adjacent stops. The Mission, it’s called. She told me these things in a dry and precise tone.

“You look tired.” She sat next to me with

Battersea Power Station, the largest brick-built structure in Europe.