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“The fact that you used artificial sweetener?”
Saccharine. Everything fake. But also real.
He takes a pink packet from the heart and throws it playfully at me.
“Not everything is a symbol!” he shouts.
I am not going to let myself sit undefended. I pull a chopstick from the heart and use it like a sword. He takes up my challenge, and raises another chopstick in the same way. He lunges. I parry. We are happy fools.
The waiter comes over with some plates. A turns his head and I pierce his chest.
“I die!” A calls out.
“Who has the moo shu chicken?” the waiter asks.
“That’s his,” I say. “And the answer is, yes, we’re always like this.”
After the waiter leaves, A asks me, “Is that true? Are we always like this?”
“Well, it’s a little too early for always,” I answer. Not to ruin the moment. Just to make sure we’re not carried away by it.
“But it’s a good sign,” he says.
“Always,” I tell him.
—
I forget about the rest of my life. I don’t even have to push it away—I’ve forgotten about it. It’s no longer there. There is only now, there is only me and A and everything that we’re sharing. It doesn’t feel like amnesia as much as it feels like a sudden absence of noise.
—
At the end of the meal, we get our fortunes. Mine says:
YOU HAVE A NICE SMILE.
“This isn’t a fortune,” I say, showing it to A.
“No. You will have a nice smile—that would be a fortune,” he tells me.
Exactly. A fortune has to tell you what’s going to happen, not what already is.
And, really, who doesn’t have a nice smile?
“I’m going to send it back,” I say.
A looks amused. “Do you often send back fortune cookies?”
“No. This is the first time. I mean, this is a Chinese restaurant—”
“Malpractice.”
“Exactly.”
I wave for the waiter, who comes immediately.
“My fortune isn’t really a fortune, it’s just a statement,” I tell him. “And it’s a pretty superficial statement at that.”
The waiter nods and returns with a handful of cookies, each individually wrapped.
