Page 77 of Dirty Husband
No doubt, that means something, but I can't consider it right now. Only three hundred sixty-four days to go. After that, after I collect, then I can think about what this year means.
While I wait for breakfast, I stay busy looking at the current slate of productions on Broadway. Key is right. A seven-hundred-dollar ticket is nothing to Shep. He probably knows someone who will offer us their thousand-dollar tickets for free.
We'll sit at a private balcony. He'll ask me to take off my panties and slip his hand under my leg and—
As hot as the thought is, it's out of the question. Some things are sacred. Theater is one of them. I guess I'll have to add that to my limits. He'll laugh. Then smile. That smile he had when we were kids. When we actually understood each other.
Or maybe we never understood each other. Maybe that was an illusion. Youthful naivety. Something. It doesn't matter.
This time, I'm not getting the wrong idea. He can have my body.
And I can have his.
But that's all it is.
Love isn't part of the equation.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jasmine
The hallway smells like fish sauce. I'm sure the neighbors are annoyed, but I have to smile. It smells like home. Like happiness. Like Dad’s well enough he's cooking something.
I'm stuffed with fresh raspberry chocolate chip pancakes—another perfect tea and food pairing—but I still feel a hunger. Not for food. For comfort. Love. Family.
The way things used to be.
I let myself in.
Dad looks up from his spot at the kitchen counter. "Jasmine, honey, taste this." He holds out his spoon. A sauce he's fixing on the stove. There are noodles draining in the sink. He's making bun cha. One of his favorites.
"Sure." I press the door closed. Nod hello to the aide who's here today, a tall man in blue scrubs, and move to the kitchen.
This apartment feels even smaller after being in Shep's place, but not in a way that's inferior.
Don't get me wrong. I appreciate the space in Shep's massive Hell's Kitchen estate. But I appreciate the cozy feeling of family more.
I taste the sauce. It's strong enough I forget the fruity breakfast. "Wow."
"Wow?" He shakes his head. "You're too Americanized now."
"It's my fault you haven't cooked in five years?"
He doesn't bring up his illness, his reason for not cooking the last few years. He just nodsof course. "You're old enough to cook for yourself now. You didn't even have fish sauce in your fridge." He shakes his head playfully.
"My neighbors complain."
He shakes his hand at themridiculous. "Invite them over next time you make Pho. They won't complain anymore."
Probably true. But unlikely to happen. It's been a long time since I've attempted the all-day affair that is pho. Sure, the broth doesn't require a lot of active time, but I don't have the mental energy to plan a twelve hour beef bone boil.
Or a trip to the butcher for said beef bones.
I know Dad would mention some grocery in Chinatown, one through a strange alley, behind a corner, that you have to know to find. But that's too much effort.
Even the one ten blocks away is too far.
The place around the corner may not have a great selection, but it has good prices for the city, and it's the on the way home.
