A (very) short story

Paul and I eat a lot of Chinese food. This is because they deliver, and when you've got one overworked editor and one overworked chemist living together, delivery is a godsend. This is especially true now while Matt's gone -- I pull a lot of late nights at the office so I don't have to come home to an empty house. ::Sighs:: We haven't talked in 11 days; I'm a little worried. But, hey, what can you do?

Anyway, back to the Chinese food. Woke up this morning wanting to write. Something about why we get so much Chinese delivery. Something short I could throw in my anthology if Chuckie and I ever get our acts together and get it to the printer. ::Winces::

Here's what I came up with. I haven't edited it; just cranked it out and posted it. So be nice.

Mu Shu Rhapsody

In the dimness of Chin’s Chinese Café, Allison signed her Visa receipt. Her waitress hovered nearby. Allison closed the receipt portfolio and nodded to the waitress, who approached in quick, small steps, picked up the receipt and bowed low.

As the waitress turned and scurried toward the kitchen, Allison admired the intricacy of her server’s traditional cheongsam. Crafted of tasteful navy silk embroidered with lotus flowers, the long-sleeved dress encompassed the woman’s tiny frame as if it had been made especially for her. Its length brushed her ankles, but slits up either side allowed for movement. Not as if her server needed the slits; as long as Allison had been coming here, she’d never seen the woman walk in anything other than a tiny tiptoe.

Allison sighed contentedly as her eyes roamed over the restaurant’s interior. Its appropriations were as traditional as the waitron. A large, clear aquarium with three koi greeted guests at the entrance. Well-manicured bamboo plants were clustered in unused corners. And from the lights positioned over each table dangled a small baqua and bell to which a large red tassel had been attached.

Chin’s had the best mu shu pork in town, bar none. Ever since Allison had moved to San Francisco, she’d been venturing to this tiny bistro on the outskirts of Chinatown. And every time she left, she felt this way – full, contented, warm, sleepy. Better than her last lover had made her feel, she mused.

In fact, she enjoyed Chin’s so much that her patronage there had increased steadily in the last year. Nearly every night now, she’d walk the twelve blocks from her tiny, windowless office at the insurance agency to the café. And she wasn’t the only one – the crowds had been growing steadily over the past few months. These days, to get in the door, she had to squeeze past a dozen people in line to pick up their take-out orders. She’d gone so far as to make a standing seven o’clock reservation for the table in the far left corner, the one she called her own.

Allison pulled a pocket mirror from her handbag and looked briefly at her reflection. Something in the back of her brain sounded an alarm – she looked gaunt these days. Gaunt and tired. But as soon as the alarm sounded, it was gone, replaced by the warm rush of her satisfying dinner. She quickly applied a thin layer of lipstick, closed her purse, placed her napkin on the table and stood clumsily. And suddenly, out of nowhere, her waitress was back at her side. She offered a stabilizing arm, walked Allison out the door, helped her into a waiting cab.

Then, the thin waitress sauntered back inside, past the aquarium and cash register, into the kitchen. Her next table’s order, kung pao chicken, was almost ready to serve. She reached for a small unlabeled shaker stored on a low shelf with the other seasonings. A quick dash on top and it was ready. She placed the GHB back on the shelf, straightened her cheongsam, and walked out of the kitchen, order in hand.