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Remember that your relatives are only human— That means they can be killed. —Andrea Tang Ancient Chinese Proverb
God help us persecuted singletons; God help us all—spring is coming.
Why did mothers always think that if they recited random details about a person you’d never met in your life, you’d somehow magically know what they were talking about?
“I did want to be a marine biologist. Or was it a mermaid? One of those. And you?” I was not going to reveal my dreams to my competitor. I mean, once upon a time, when I was young and foolish, I’d wanted to be a writer. “Writer,” he answered immediately. “What a cliché,” I said. “You and every sad lawyer I know.”
Andrea, stop talking or we might become friends.”
“We should definitely have lunch together if I’m not too old for your tastes, what say you, Andrea?”
It’s 12:40 a.m.—what were you expecting? And call me old-fashioned, but I’d prefer a good setup by friends or a work romance to online dating.
Men! You share an office with them and they think they have a right to stick their nose in your business.
“Could you please type normally,” he said, irritated. “I have an angry client and an even angrier fiancée.” “Oh,” I said. I glanced over and saw him staring blankly at the screen with an expression I knew well. It was what I called the Monday Horror Show™ face, a combo of constipation, existential horror, and resignation. With some hesitation, I got up, went over, and gave him the chastest, most scholarly of shoulder pats. Suresh’s shoulders were dangerous territory: they were taut with muscles that invited lingering caresses. I quickly brought up mental images of hairy men in tight
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When I brought the flowers into the room Suresh promptly started sneezing. Turns out he is allergic to beauty.
“What can I help you with, Mr. Deng?” I said, primly. “Oh, I was hoping we were on a first-name basis now, you know, since you’ve already called me an immoral old fart,” he said, poker-faced.
Linda’s paternal family tree was an off-brand Marcos (or so it was rumored);
Not the PH's Marcos, I hope.
“I am fifty-two. I’ve never been married, but I have a six-year-old daughter who is deaf and whose mom was someone I had a one-night stand with. For the past six years, I’ve been supporting them both. The mother has a strict confidentiality agreement with me. The child lives with me every other week, and I pay her mother a decent allowance to ensure they are both comfortable and the mother can further her studies at a local university. Was that too much of an information dump for your due diligence? Are you scared off?”
why do people use the expression “ungodly hour”? All hours are godly. It just depends on who your god is.
Urgh. Work. Is. So. Boring. Why do humans have to work? Work is so stupid. The best things in life, like sex, are free after all. Well, mostly.
“I’d elope, too, if I had to pay for a huge wedding,” I said. “Although my ideal wedding, if I didn’t have to meet the expectations of my mother, would be small and intimate, on a beach.” “Mine, too,” he said. “Somewhere in the Polynesian islands, where it’s—” “Far and expensive enough so the people you courtesy invite don’t make the effort to actually come, unlike Bali?” “Exactly,” he exclaimed. I shook my head, marveling at how much on the same wavelength we were. “Too bad we’re not getting married to each other.” Suresh looked at me strangely. “Yeah. Too bad,” he said.
“If we got married one day, you could just stop working, be a tai-tai,* do whatever you want instead, like start a charity, work in one of those development aid organizations. You’ll be much happier.” I stiffened. “That’s sounds so . . . Stepford Wives. And I’m not interested in being that.” “Not at all! I didn’t say stay at home and be the perfect homemaker in heels—that’s sexist. Suggesting you use your time in a more worthwhile manner by working on something you believe in. Plus I’m not making you quit a job that you love more than anything in the world. You hate your job. You called it
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When Suresh had asked me, I’d joked about wanting to be a mermaid or a marine biologist, and I had once flirted with the idea of writing as a career, but the truth is I don’t know what I would do, if I had the freedom to decide. Growing up I’d never been asked that question before, because I’d never been given a choice.
Linda had an uncle who was a somewhat renowned breeder of gamecock in the Philippines, and I had visited a clandestine cockfight in a tobacco field in Cuba and had been shown how they were “outfitted” before the fight.
“My North Star . . . ,” he whispered. His nickname for her. “Do you remember w-why I chose it for you?” Rheans nods, weeping. Between tears, she manages to finish his words for him. “You don’t have to be the brightest star in the sky, but you’re the one I look to when I need direction.” “I love you, Louise,” he says, fading. He remembers everything now.
