Close Your Eyes by Amanda Eyre Ward

what to make of them. In New York, my mother had dropped me at day care before dawn. My father worked on his poetry at home and picked me up around three or four. When I was in elementary school, he was often late and usually unshowered, sticking out like a sore thumb among the suburban mothers. He’d stand at the edge of the playground with his hands in some rumpled pants, his big tummy hanging over his belt. He had a goatee and John Lennon spectacles. My pride in him remained strong, even as the years went on and his scribblings seemed to amount to little. We would walk home, stopping at the Holt bakery for a snack. He bought me any cookie I wanted, asking only for a piece—the ear of a mouse or the wing of a bat—to dip in his afternoon espresso.
    But even the most polished mothers in New York were nothing compared to the Texas crowd. I felt like an anthropologist watching them. I wanted to learn how to be normal, how to be a wife and mother. I didn’t mind my life, but I hoped to transition to something else eventually. Maybe that was why I gravitated to real estate—I could observe people’s homes with a scientist’s detachment. If I could see what a house looked like when it was happily lived in, then maybe I could piece together what had gone wrong on Ocean Avenue.
    After work some evenings, I would take in a movie or walk around Hyde Park and West Campus. One night, for a change, I took myself to dinner at a cheap spot called Now and Zen sushi. I was sitting at the counter, surveying all the ingredients, when a white man in a black button-down shirt came from the back room. His hair was a bit long and curly, and he had a spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He seemed genuinely glad to see me. “Welcome,” he said.
    “Hi,” I said.
    “What can I do for you?” said Gerry.
    “Feed me,” I said. And he did. After making me the California roll and miso soup I had requested (I had never been to another country; even miso soup was exotic to me), he asked if I’d be willing to taste-test some new creations on the house. Happy to have something to do besides watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns in my room, I agreed. He made me a strong but sweet cocktail and fed me mussels marinated in Kaffir lime juice with fresh cilantro; tuna on a slice of apple with a bit of goat cheese; and sea urchin, which melted on my tongue like salty sea foam. He gave me a foil-wrapped square of chocolate for dessert.
    When the chocolate was gone, I didn’t want to depart. As I folded the foil in my fingers, Gerry told me he had grown up in Tokyo: his parents were both teachers at the International School. He was working as a sushi chef to put himself through a computer science degree at UT, and though Now and Zen catered mainly to students and college grads on a shoestring budget (like me), Gerry liked to play around with the fish, serving “specials” to customers who seemed interested. He kept his textbooks in the kitchen and studied when things were slow.
    “Why computer science?” I asked him. “You don’t seem like a … nerd.” I slurped my cocktail. My face felt warm, and I was smiling too much.
    “I thought about trying to work in food or entertainment,” he said, leaning on the polished counter, “but I guess I never felt safe financially while I was growing up. I’m good at computer science. And I want to make a steady living, so I can eat well, travel, you know … wine and dine my wife.”
    “Wife?” I said. I made a sound between a choke and a giggle.
    “I mean my future wife,” said Gerry. There was a pause as we looked at each other. I felt my damn mouth curling up again. I reached for my glass of ice water. “Would you like to … do you want to … have lunch or brunch this weekend?” he asked.
    “Yes,” I said. I wrote my number on his hand and felt the inexplicable urge to press my lips against his palm. Thankfully, I refrained.
    I walked home that night filled with a giddy