who whoops and tells her to go faster, faster. Her father quickly intervenes, scooping her up off the seat before she speeds and wobbles into a big crash. The bike tumbles sideways without her on it, and she laughs and throws her arms up in the air.
“I won! I won!”
“Time for bed, you,” he tells her and laughs.
Pete looks down into his food, and we both pretend not to have noticed. I move the mash around with my fork.
* * *
The next morning Pete is gone when I wake up, the clock glowing 9:49. I add up the numbers like a bill. That’s eleven cents change, round to ten, there you go, sir. I shake my head and sit up. The sheet is tangled around my waist, the legs of my pajama pants twisted around my legs. The pillow has been tossed to the floor, and my hair is thick and damp against my neck. Heat rises from me as from a road in summer, ebbing, ebbing, ebbing. I breathe out slowly, calming the quick skipping of my heart. The cool air from an open window finds me, caresses my temples as I let my head fall back to the mattress. Hot flush. The words get caught in my dry throat as I whisper them to myself. My body sending me a road sign—this is the direction now.
It has been a few days since I left the apartment, other than to fetch flour and sugar and royal icing mix. I have an impulse to walk to the gourmet supermarket, my mind already starting to wander the aisles. Maybe we can have an antipasti plate for dinner with cold wine in big glasses. I’ll buy smoked salmon and ham cut from the bone, olives and cheese. Perhaps I can be a good stay-at-home wife after all.
I change into loose pants and throw on one of Pete’s T-shirts. Beneath the sharp lemon scent of laundry powder, it smells likehim. I tie my hair back into a ponytail and avoid looking at myself in the mirror, in case I give up on the idea altogether and go back to bed instead. The supermarket is several blocks away, and with the weather starting to warm up, it is not the most comfortable hike. When I finally get there, I am coated in a light sweat and my eyes are watering from the white sunlight. I curse myself for not wearing sunglasses; not only is it brighter out here than in the cave of my bedroom, but on the way I see one of Pete’s colleagues waving at me from across the street. Sometimes I forget how small Macau is, all the expatriates practically living on top of one another. I wave and smile politely, relieved that he does not cross over to talk to me, and quickly enter the supermarket, where the air-conditioning chills the sweat on my skin.
“Grace?”
I squint toward the deep, rolling voice, my eyes still adjusting to the dim light. I make out only that it is a man, and he is tall. He comes closer and smiles.
“Hello? Oh good, I thought it was you. How are you?”
It is Léon.
I am sure I smell terrible, but he starts to lean in, so I just smile as best I can. He gives me a light kiss on each cheek, as soft as a bird’s wing.
“Hi, Léon. I’m well, and you?” My voice is ever so slightly too high.
“ Bien, très bien, very well. I haven’t seen you since the party. What have you been doing?”
“Ah, this and that, you know. Not much.” Hiding, hibernating, wishing the world away. He smiles at me so warmly, as if we are the greatest of friends, old mates. I feel like fading into the walls, wishing he would go back to his shopping. Instead he asks me what I am planning to make, and his eyes grow wide.
“Antipasti? This is a great idea! Will you let me help you?”
“Oh, sure.”
“I have suggestions,” he says firmly and takes my elbow.
He helps me find the salmon and recommends cheeses. I buy an herbed chèvre just because he seems so enamored of it. The same with a jar of stuffed green olives; they may not be fashionable, he whispers conspiratorially, but they are still the best. In the air-conditioned silence, he walks beside me, scanning the shelves. I find myself giving him pieces of information about
“I won! I won!”
“Time for bed, you,” he tells her and laughs.
Pete looks down into his food, and we both pretend not to have noticed. I move the mash around with my fork.
* * *
The next morning Pete is gone when I wake up, the clock glowing 9:49. I add up the numbers like a bill. That’s eleven cents change, round to ten, there you go, sir. I shake my head and sit up. The sheet is tangled around my waist, the legs of my pajama pants twisted around my legs. The pillow has been tossed to the floor, and my hair is thick and damp against my neck. Heat rises from me as from a road in summer, ebbing, ebbing, ebbing. I breathe out slowly, calming the quick skipping of my heart. The cool air from an open window finds me, caresses my temples as I let my head fall back to the mattress. Hot flush. The words get caught in my dry throat as I whisper them to myself. My body sending me a road sign—this is the direction now.
It has been a few days since I left the apartment, other than to fetch flour and sugar and royal icing mix. I have an impulse to walk to the gourmet supermarket, my mind already starting to wander the aisles. Maybe we can have an antipasti plate for dinner with cold wine in big glasses. I’ll buy smoked salmon and ham cut from the bone, olives and cheese. Perhaps I can be a good stay-at-home wife after all.
I change into loose pants and throw on one of Pete’s T-shirts. Beneath the sharp lemon scent of laundry powder, it smells likehim. I tie my hair back into a ponytail and avoid looking at myself in the mirror, in case I give up on the idea altogether and go back to bed instead. The supermarket is several blocks away, and with the weather starting to warm up, it is not the most comfortable hike. When I finally get there, I am coated in a light sweat and my eyes are watering from the white sunlight. I curse myself for not wearing sunglasses; not only is it brighter out here than in the cave of my bedroom, but on the way I see one of Pete’s colleagues waving at me from across the street. Sometimes I forget how small Macau is, all the expatriates practically living on top of one another. I wave and smile politely, relieved that he does not cross over to talk to me, and quickly enter the supermarket, where the air-conditioning chills the sweat on my skin.
“Grace?”
I squint toward the deep, rolling voice, my eyes still adjusting to the dim light. I make out only that it is a man, and he is tall. He comes closer and smiles.
“Hello? Oh good, I thought it was you. How are you?”
It is Léon.
I am sure I smell terrible, but he starts to lean in, so I just smile as best I can. He gives me a light kiss on each cheek, as soft as a bird’s wing.
“Hi, Léon. I’m well, and you?” My voice is ever so slightly too high.
“ Bien, très bien, very well. I haven’t seen you since the party. What have you been doing?”
“Ah, this and that, you know. Not much.” Hiding, hibernating, wishing the world away. He smiles at me so warmly, as if we are the greatest of friends, old mates. I feel like fading into the walls, wishing he would go back to his shopping. Instead he asks me what I am planning to make, and his eyes grow wide.
“Antipasti? This is a great idea! Will you let me help you?”
“Oh, sure.”
“I have suggestions,” he says firmly and takes my elbow.
He helps me find the salmon and recommends cheeses. I buy an herbed chèvre just because he seems so enamored of it. The same with a jar of stuffed green olives; they may not be fashionable, he whispers conspiratorially, but they are still the best. In the air-conditioned silence, he walks beside me, scanning the shelves. I find myself giving him pieces of information about
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