1. idly, the lone waitress slinks out of the counter after I seat myself at a table for four. she does not offer me the menu. checking her hair in the mirrored wall, she announces "we don't have specials today." "it's okay," I seek her black eyes, "I just want something warm."
2. I order something with fish and vegetables. she brings back a bowl of thick but pale white noodles. sloppily, she pushes the steaming bowl towards me. the fat noodles squirm like catfish trapped in the shallow end of a draining rice paddy.
3. growing up, mama never missed serving something sweet and stringy during new year's day dinner. sweet, to bode for a tearless year and stringy for our hoped-for long lives. earlier, I made a trip to the uppity patisserie uptown then dropped by the neighborhood bakery two blocks down. no sweets shops open in this town in the first day of the year. I dread the thought of a long life rife with grief.
4. there are only two shrimps in my soup. I decide to eat them last. fan-tailed, the two of them sit coiled and contented in the deep end of the bowl. their pink tails remind me not to procrastinate anymore and order online that thick comforter-blanket.
5. by the door mirror, I see the waitress beams after she realizes the tip I left her. my slight jacket and the meager soup inside me pale against the bite of the new year's morning frost. I almost decide to go back to the restaurant just to see the waitress' smile again.
