Tuvalu by Andrew O'Connor

fishing.
    â€˜Marlin can really swim,’ he said. ‘One got caught off the coast of Australia, then was hooked again four years later near Costa Rica.’
    The bar drew me away from his talk, as it did Mami. I found myself following her gaze, first towards the bar staff, all glancing at Phillip, then towards the jukebox (an anachronistic, vintage piece everyone seemed to want to rub). Mami’s eyes eventually came to rest on a small, silent TV off in a corner. This TV was a concession by the interior designer to good business sense. A number of North American types huddled around it as if it were a fireplace. They were all professionals and drank premium beers in big gulps. With drunken eyes they stared at the screen intently, absorbed in an ice hockey match.
    â€˜I love ice hockey,’ Mami said. ‘It’s a unique sport.’
    I confessed to understanding nothing of it.
    â€˜Do you know,’ she said, seeming to cheer up a little, ‘that in ice hockey it’s okay to bash each other up? You see it all the time. It’s great. They stop chasing that puck around, drop their gloves and go at it, punching each other. The referee just stands back and watches. How many sports do you know like that?’
    â€˜Boxing,’ said Phillip.
    Mami glanced at him, and answered with a steadfast silence.

    Phillip swapped to tequila, buying rounds and drinking Mami’s when she palmed them aside. Soon his balance began to betray him and a small swag of female admirers, far from losing interest, redoubled their efforts to seduce him. Coming to understand that Mami was not the least bit interested in anything he had to say, and unable to tolerate the humiliation, he eventually allowed himself to be dragged to a table full of young available women.
    Mami immediately asked, ‘Why did you bring him?’
    â€˜He wanted to come.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said, not bothering to argue.
    Thirty-odd minutes later the bar closed. Phillip—now carried by three impossibly young girls—gestured up the frosty street.
    â€˜We’re going this way for ramen noodles,’ he called. Drunk people bumped my shoulders as they passed from behind, a few muttering apologies.
    â€˜You go ahead,’ Mami called back. If her words gave the impression we intended to catch up, her voice told Phillip that she wanted nothing more to do with him, not then or ever. He stared back, puzzled, hurt even, then shrugged and let the young women pull him away. When Mami turned back I expected the same treatment, but her face was conspiratorial.
    â€˜Let’s get noodles,’ she whispered, turning me in the opposite direction. ‘I know a place that’s open all night.’
    She led me into a maze of small dark streets. I was excited and confused. Why did she choose me over Phillip? I could not say, not exactly. I focused on the touch of her fingers, the smell of her perfume, the clack of her gold heels. I was, despite myself, proud to be in the company of such a beautiful girl.
    The restaurant had only three tables, evidently certain it would never be struck with an influx of business. We were the only patrons. The chef spent most of his time standing in front of an old TV mounted to the ceiling. He could well afford to spend long nights doing this because he had an apprentice who did all the work—cooking, serving and cleaning. This young man looked fed up as he placed two bowls of soy sauce noodles in front of us.
    â€˜Enjoy your meal,’ he said flatly, eyes bloodshot.
    Occasionally the chef would laugh and point at the TV for our benefit. We drank nothing stronger than green tea, eating and talking quietly about whatever popped into our heads. Outside the alley was empty, motionless.
    After the assistant cleared our bowls, Mami dropped her chin onto the base of both palms, fingertips beside her eyes.
    â€˜You should come and get your denim