23. (Fiction.)

He watches the gold-fish float along, the blue-green light of the aquarium casting its glow on their table. The small, graceful fish vanishes behind her head and his attention is on her now. Her hands move quick and easy--graceful--and bring the noodles to her mouth, but the chopsticks in his own hand are far more clumsy. The noodles slip and splatter, but not enough to mark his clothing or the white table-cloth.

She giggles, dark eyes narrowing slightly in mirth. "This was a good choice."

"I'd heard that it was the least Americanized in town; you were just complaining--"

She interrupts: "It's not as bad as some, but I approve." A smile. "Next week, sometime, I'll have my mom make you some of this. Show you how it's supposed to taste."

"I'd like that," he replies. They go silent again as he struggles to use the foreign utensils. A woman swings by and snatches up their glasses. His companion rises and strides off, then returns with a completely different selection of food. The woman drops off fresh glasses of soda.

He's up now, and away, examining potential meals through well-cleaned glass. Could he use the chopsticks on this? How about that? Rice was out of the question.

He goes back to the table, just as she rises for another helping. She comes back with a bowl of fried rice, with chunks of egg and chicken. She eats it with a fork. They smile.

Some god or beast glares at them as they leave, frozen in stone. She complains, verbally, that she hates this synthesized bullshit. In the car, in their shelter, she pops in a CD of music that she thinks would fit the establishment better.

He can't help but agree.