GenGhis Khan's Massage

In addition to Ralph’s nasty cracks, indifference, and drinking, there was the absolute monotony.  Mei-Lin recited this litany of grievances to her sister in Taiwan.  “And, he always walk around naked, think he look like some kind of Superman, but he really just an old guy with wrinkled skin.”

They both spoke English with the familiarity of having grown up around Americans, but Mei-Lin had hit the jackpot marrying a rich, big nosed mei-guo devil.

“Maybe people see him naked they think he just wearing old clothes that need ironing.” her sister said.   The sisters, five thousand miles apart, shrieked in laughter.

“Shut the hell up,” Ralph shouted.  “I’m watching the damn election news!”

That did it.  Stupid elections of ugly old white men!  She wanted to dance, hear music, have people serve her.  Mei-Lin felt old at age 36.  Better that the old fart die instead.  She had a life to live, perhaps with Dr. George Abernathy.  He listened to her and loved the bento lunches she brought him at the hospital.  Pork chops, fried rice, stir-fried cabbage, pickled cucumbers.  Affection, if not undying love, was packed in Ziploc dishes.  She was an hospital orderly who cooked superbly; he was a cardiologist who fixed broken hearts.  What a pair.

“You could make it big as a restaurateur,” Dr. Abernathy said more than once.  “I mean it.  This is soooo good.”  She knew he wasn’t referring to her cooking.  Dr. Abernathy appreciated her body — in empty hospital rooms late at night.  Not like Ralph, who called her Mei-Fun, referring to the skinny, tasteless rice noodles.

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