Page 21 of Angel of Thursdays

“Drive safe,” his father said.

“We’re taking BART,” Cassiel replied in English.

“Drive safe,” his father said again.

Jaewon was clinging to his grandfather’s leg, watching Cassiel and May intensely, his small hand gripping the corduroy.

“Let us know when you get that ten dollars, man,” May said, and Jaewon nodded jerkily.

* * *

They made it to the platform. BART to Embarcadero, the long way back.

The train was half-empty, the East Bay scrolling backward into the dark outside the window. The pink box was gone. His mother had distributed the egg tarts within twenty minutes of arrival—and in its place May held the bag with the glass containers on his lap, stacked, the locking lids clicking faintly with the train’s vibration, plastic rustling.

May was quieter. Whatever had powered him through six hours of Lim family had dropped to idle.

“Your family is really nice,” May said.

His face was turned toward the window, and then toward Cassiel. His dark eyes were warm and tired and those facts were all Cassiel could see. There was nothing behind them that he could read. The warmth, the dark, the fatigue, these were opaque, so he had no option but to accept them as transparency.

“They liked you,” Cassiel said.

May didn’t answer, just hummed and smiled loosely as he closed his eyes. The train rocked them both, and for a while neither of them spoke.

“My mother expects you back,” Cassiel said. He turned his ring. “At the next dinner. She said you agreed.”

“Yeah. Well, kinda. I didn’t say no.”

“Then… it makes sense to continue, at least for a while, if your schedule allows.” He could hear himself constructing the argument backwards. It had to be clean, logical, the same framework that he applied to purchase decisions. “There are other dinners. There’s a calendar. If you have—your own family, other commitments⁠—”

May was looking at him. The gap in his teeth was visible, his mouth slightly open, but he wasn’t grinning. Cassiel wasn’t sure what to make of that.

The train passed the bridge and the lights off the western span washed through the car, blue-white, moving across May’s face.

“Yeah,” May said. “I’m down.”

His eyes were sleepy, and he was smiling.

“Okay,” Cassiel said, instead of everything else he had been prepared to say. The explanations, the logistics.

The bridge fell behind them. The train dropped into the Tube and the windows went dark and the city was somewhere ahead of them, waiting.

They parted at Embarcadero. May transferred to the 38. Cassiel crossed to the Muni platform for the N-Judah. The platform was cold and the containers were still radiating heat, condensation coating the bag by his feet. They settled together, glass on glass.

6

MAY

Miss Mary’s containers were still on May’s counter and this was getting to be a problem.

There had been three in the bright blue plastic bag from Chuseok, and there were still three now, sitting by the sink. He had washed them perfectly, because he was a professional, and all the food had gone somewhere, eaten by another May, another night, and he’d washed them probably two more times in the following days just to be sure, because Cassiel’s mother activated some ancient Asian compulsion in him about returning kitchenware in pristine condition.

He had the green notebook open on the counter now.

He’d written it down: Return containers to Miss Mary. LIDS!!!

Checkbox drawn. Checkbox left empty. His pen hovered.