She did not depart with her takeout and sits alone at a booth for six or more.
The young woman eats fried rice straight from the small box with chopsticks, refusing to mix it with what remains concealed in the other container.
With great agility, she lifts each bite to and through an inch-wide slit in her mask, as if it were custom-tailored for this specific activity.
There is a loud hum coming from a fan. Not a kitchen fan, but a tilted box fan on the kitchen floor.
A small child plays with a 90s-era GameBoy on a folding chair next to the register, too young to possess his own phone or risk damaging his mother’s.
Nearly ten minutes in I finally decide, then contemplate whether to attempt placing my order in Mandarin.
I notice the young woman, presumably still a student, in the booth softly weeping, looking down at the paperback book she brought with her, the one thing she has chosen to extract from an overstuffed backpack.
Dim lighting mixes with the blue haze of a Golden Girls rerun playing on tube television mounted on a shelf. It is near the tip of the tail of a painted dragon mural. Its placement is equal parts awkward and intentional.
I step forward and order the chow fun in English.
The young woman, whom I now think is more girl than young woman, stabs her chopsticks into the rice, takes a highlighter to the book, and begins speaking to herself, gradually increasing her volume. I’m not sure if it is Mandarin or Cantonese or if it has anything to do with the book, her story, or what comes next.
I feel an awkward uptick in my heart rate as I wonder how long it takes to prepare chow fun, my eyes roaming the room so as not to make eye contact.
I steal a glance at the boy and his mother near the register in hopes of a social cue. They are unaffected, as though they have seen this before.
The girl closes her book, resumes her careful ritual. The strip mall restaurant goes quiet. My ears are unable to locate the hum of the fan.
Then enters heated banter between widowers Rose and Blanche, and we are all looking up to the television. When the laugh track is missing it is a signal for the audience that a serious shift has taken place.
Maybe there is something to glean here from two aging actors working out a paper-thin plot line, something about how to move forward while leaving certain things behind. And because nobody will ask me how the chow fun was tonight, or what transpired inside Happy Dragon, doesn’t mean it was just another inconsequential night of takeout.
Thad DeVassie is a multi-genre writer and painter who creates from the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. His collection SPLENDID IRRATIONALITIES was awarded the 2020 James Tate International Poetry Prize (SurVision Books). Find more of his work at www.thaddevassie.com.