“Everyone’s doing alright, considering.  The boss hasn’t found any competent enough chefs to hire so he’s promoted Luna to executive chef in the meantime.”

“No ?  That’s great news!”

“Yeah - and speaking of Luna - just last week, Minzy found her and Nana making out.  In the walk-in fridge.  Can you believe it?”

“Yeah, well, they were bound to get caught at some point.”

“You knew?”

“Er, it was kind of a hunch that Minzy let me in on early on.  You remember that mini-party we had about a year ago?  Apparently Nana was all over Luna.  That and the fact that she never once responded to Baekhyun whenever he tried to flirt with her.  Besides, have you ever heard Luna yell at Nana?  And she yells at everyone!  Including me!”

“You make it seem as if she doesn’t do that anymore.  She does it even more now that she’s in the actual position of power, you know.”

“Yeah, well, some things are never going to change.  So?  What else?  Did Sehun -”

“- yeah, he asked Jongin on a date the other day -”

“- finally get over the weird crush he had on his stepbrother?”

“...wait -” “- what??”

“He had a what?” “He’s dating who???”

After a few seconds of shared silence, staring at each other’s perplexed, wide-eyed expressions, they both snorted.

Soon they were throwing their heads back in laughter, unraveling the story to each other only to laugh even harder at how ridiculous it ended up being.  It only ended when Tao was wiping tears from his eyes, Kris smiling so wildly that his cheeks were beginning to hurt.  Even when they eventually fell into a comfortable silence Kris still couldn’t pull it off of his face, eyes warmly taking in the laughter etched on the familiar face in front of him.

God, it felt so good just to see Tao finally happy.  Nothing else mattered.

Kris reached out longingly, using just his fingertips to brush at the other’s lips.

The computer screen was cold.  Plastic to the touch and buzzing with faint static.

That distant and distorted voice was still coming through, trailing details of a man’s new life in a new world with new friends.  How goddamn amazing everything was.  How beautiful and warm.

For as much as Kris treasured Tao’s happiness though, there was a side of him that was biting with bitterness.

How could you be happy?  When we’re not there to share it.

“And Kiara?  Has she been doing well in school?”

“Yes.  She’s learning so fast.  All of the teachers can see that.”

“Yeah, well, she’s always been a smart kid.  You’d have to be blind not to see that.”  Tao’s lips quirked up at the corners, hesitant.  Hopeful.  “Hey, if she’s around, do you think I could… maybe...?”

Kris had already lost count just how many times the other man had asked, only to hear the same answer in return.  He shook his head.

“I think she’s still in bed.  It’s Saturday, you know.”

“...I know.”

Tao sighed, although this time it was with an air of dejection.  Kris sighed softly, leaning forward as he rubbed at his eyes with his fingers.

“I’m sorry, Tao.  You know I’ve tried asking, but every time I’ve tried, she’s gotten upset and locked herself away in her room.  I was told not to expect this kind of behavior until her teenage years, but…”

Kris tried to snort, but it came out a little wetter sounding than he’d intended.

“She’s just -”

Tao’s shoulders sank even further.

“...she’s just having a hard time.”

-

It was the end of another school year.  Kiara was moving on to another grade, ready to take on new challenges, to make another dent in her early yet ever so important education.  In the coming months, there would be new school supplies to buy, new things to learn, new colorful crayon drawings to stick onto the refrigerator door.

Kiara had expressed at some point earlier, how very much she’d love to have a party at the end of the year if she did well.

Sure, the circumstances were different now than they had been before, but that didn’t change the fact that a promise was a promise.  She was daddy’s little girl, anyway.  No matter how strict he was, he always kept his promises to her, and she could practically get away with murder with that dimpled little smile of hers.

Maybe he shouldn’t have made it such a surprise though.  After all, in true children’s fashion, even Kiara was prone to changing her mind often.  And quickly.

“No, no, no!  Why’d you have to invite Kelly!  I don’t like him anymore and I don’t want him to come!”

Kris sighed, letting the sleeve of the little red tulle dress go, watching as she quickly yanked her arm out, scratching at her skin with an exaggerated grimace until her father gripped her hand firmly and pulled it away.

“Stop that, Kiara.  You told me yourself you wanted the party, and the last time I heard, you two were best friends.  Don’t tell me you got into some silly argument with him.  You should know better than to pick fights with the other kids.”

She in a deep breath, and Kris knew he was in for some trouble.

Most of the time, Kiara was the model child.  A perfect carbon copy of Kris’ stoicism and maturity in a tiny little package.  Sometimes though, Kiara was exactly what most children were at her age - a screaming, hyperactive bundle of ‘let me go let me go let me go’s and ‘I don’t wanna I don’t wanna I don’t wanna’s.

Somewhere during her tantrum, Kris’ mind drew completely blank.

“I wish you would just go away!”  She said, pushing him away as she tried to step out and away from the dress.

It was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

He grabbed onto his daughter’s shoulders, shaking her firmly just once to get her attention.  Her protests died down immediately.

“Kiara, you need to start behaving - right - now.  I am only going to say this once, do you hear me?  You are going to put on this dress, and you are going to put on this dress now, or else someone is going to find herself in a time-out.  Is that what you want, Kiara?  Do you want to be sitting out of your own party, just because you and your friend are having a little fight?”

Although it was as controlled of a tone as it always was, there was a cold quality to her father’s voice that Kiara had never heard directed at her before.  She stared, at first unsure of how to respond, before the first prickles of tears began to well up in her eyes.

“...you - you just don’t get it.  He - he told me it wasn’t normal to have two daddies.”  She sniveled, her eyebrows scrunching together as her nose began to drip.  She wiped it away with the back of her hand.  “He laughed at me - and told me - that at least he still had a mom.”

“Kiara, I…” Kris started, trying to hold her hands within his, but she jerked them out of his reach.

“...Tao woulda understood.  Tao wouldn’tve made me wear this stupid dress and go to a stupid party!  Tao wouldn’t yell at me!”

“Kiara, I…”

“Go away, stupid!  I want Tao!  Tao!”

She tore out of his hold, the half-worn dress still dragging behind her like a limp tail against the floor as she ran out of the room in a fit of wailing tears, just barely missing colliding with the long pair of legs that appeared at the door just as she left.

The owner of said pair of long legs, Lay, spun his head around in concern at his former student, watching her run down the long hallway before entering the door to her room.  It slammed loudly shut behind her.  The red letter ‘K’ that had been stuck onto the door with the other letters of her name drooped, curling in on itself.

He turned back to find Kris kneeling on the ground, looking defeated with a tiny and crumpled red bow still clutched in his hands.

The teacher sighed, shifting his glance back to Kiara’s room once more before taking a step toward Kris.

The man in question barely lifted his head when a package was set down on the ground in front of him, squat and square.

Lay mumbled something about having brought in the mail, that he was going to go deal with Kiara, and that afterwards if Kris could sit with him in the kitchen because they needed to have a talk, please - but Kris was already lost in the sharp lines of the black marker, stark against the faded brown color of the package itself.

KEEP FROZEN - it shouted, in all capital letters, underlined several times.

(And then in fainter, smaller writing -  Tao’s homemade chicken soup.)

-

“I miss you.”  He says sometimes, when he can’t take it anymore.

He means it.  He’s never meant anything more in his life.

It should make him feel better, some sense of retribution to see Tao closing his eyes in obvious pain, leaning back in his chair with a hand slowing rising over his mouth, clearly overcome guilt and pain.

But the truth is that it never does anything but to make him feel even worse.

“Kris, I’m…”

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry.”  Kris said, already exhausted.

“Tell Kiara.  She keeps waiting at the window every day, thinking that one of these days you’ll still show up - that you’ll climb out of the car with a smile and a laugh and tell her that it was all some kind of joke!”

He heard Tao in a deep, wounded breath, but instead of something thrown back to him in response, a dagger meant to dig in deep and to hurt, Tao’s next words came out resigned instead.  Despondent.  “...Kris, you knew I couldn’t stay.”

And with that, Kris deflated back into his seat, sinking into the loud groan of leather.  He felt thirty years older, the weight of the world, his daughter’s happiness and his own anxiety at being left behind - suddenly too pressing, too heavy for him to bear.

“I know.”  He said, because it was the only thing he could say.

“I know.”  This time, quieter.

“...just don’t tell me you’re sorry.”  Kris repeated again.  “Tell me you’re doing alright.  That this is what you needed to do.  Please, I need to hear it.”

Through his headset, he could hear Tao leaning forward.

“...I… I’m happier here, but I miss you both.”

It was so obvious, the yearning in the other man’s voice.  His own heart constricted at the sound.

“I -”  Kris started, the tears sudden and falling so quickly that he couldn’t quite wipe them all from his face.  “I miss you too - so - damn - much!”

There was a soft and broken sound as Tao placed a hand onto his screen.  Kris echoed the movement with his own, and held hands with his lover through the quietly humming screen of a computer.

-

It hurts the most at 3am.

3am was the time of night when his mind had nothing better to do but to think.

Half drunk on the need to sleep, insomnia gripped him like a cruel lover, refusing to let him go from its clutches, and yet whispering to him all the same, about all the things he could have done.  Should have done.  Why hadn’t he?

Kris would lie on his stomach on his side of the bed, unable to explain to himself why it was he always left the other side untouched.

He stretched out a hand toward the other pillow, picking it up quietly and bringing it to his face.

He closed his eyes, pressing his nose in and taking in a deep breath.

As if trying to recall all of the notes of his favorite vintage, he sat there curled around it, clutching it close to his heart.

If he strained his ears, he could still hear the quiet chop of a knife against wood, the smell of pancakes on the stove, someone humming softly over the sound of the radio.

Had the signs been there then?

Yes, perhaps they had, in the way he cut such a solitary figure, quiet in those moments alone.  He just hadn’t wanted to see it then.

The key to any good cook’s success is his heart, don’t you know?  You can’t just give 50% and expect someone else to contribute the rest, his dream would say, cutting up a thick slab of bacon on the cutting board with expert flicks of his knife.  Then he would turn around with a smile that always made Kris’ heart flutter.

Are you still listening to me, Kris?

Goosebumps that prickled a path along on his arms.

“...I’m listening.”

-

The famous critic was in.

A small, unassuming man named J. Kim with a friendly smile and polite table manners.

In other words - not what any of them had been expecting.

And yet there he was, sitting by himself in the middle of the restaurant, a single light shining down on him like he was some goddamn saint.

Kris did what he was supposed to do.  Smoothed back his hair, put on his perfected smile, gave his thousand-times-rehearsed introduction of the house specialties and wines.

The critic agreed to have whatever Kris suggested, which is a wise choice, considering he already has the pick of the day in his hand.  Kris took the exact same ten step walk around the table as he had every day for years.  Napkin.  Step.  Pivot.  Glass.  Step.  Step.  Pivot.  Wine bottle.  Step.  Pivot.  Pour.

He filled the wine glass to just the right level, gave it that exact half-quarter tilt he’s been taught, a quirk of the wrist at the same time as he lifted the bottle prevented anything else from spilling down the lip.

It was as if everything has slowed down in those few moments though, because when he looked back up, he could see that the world had turned into nothing but shades of black and white and grey, unmoving in all senses of the term.

The critic was watching him.  Is watching him.  Unblinkingly.

There was a message here, Kris is sure of it.  He just doesn’t quite understand.

So he stared right back, trying to discern what it was.

A few drops of wine splashed back in.

Spinning, free falling slow motion dribbles dripping, dipping into an empty pool of glass, shockwaves, concussions of beauty forming perfectly on the ripples of its endless red sea.

It hits him.

Feeling the strain of the mask he had put on his own face, reflected to him on the surface of the swirling red liquid, his collar was suddenly too tight, the feeling of every fabric of each piece of clothing suddenly rigid and restricting on his body and the sweat on his brow burning on his forehead and - Kris gets it.

He finally gets it.

What Tao had been saying all along.

Don’t you ever feel like it’s too much?

Tao resting on his chest, half and alluring and looking lost in the moonlight that hits just the side of his flushed face so still and so - so beautiful.

Don’t you ever feel like it’s just…?

...oh.  He almost wanted to say, hearing the rush of silence in his ears, blood burning up through his veins like lava.

Oh.  Yes - I -

I -

He broke free abruptly, taking a step back and ripped forward into the present.

Mumbling some excuse under his breath, he left the other man there as he made his way back to the kitchen.

It was a loud, shouting mess as usual, but for some reason Kris felt completely unaffected, shielded from the chaos by the knowledge that yes - yes now he understood.

He quietly pushed past the flying knives, the spitting oil, and the steaming hot tempers to make it through the back door, letting only the owner know with faint, muttered words -

“I’ll be right back.  I left something at home.”

Too lost in his own world of anxiety to really hear, Mr. Choi did nothing but wave him off.

-

By the time anyone even realized what it was that was about to happen, it was too late to stop it.  While the rest of the waitstaff were still tapping their toes, waiting to serve the second course that was still being prepared, Kris already had a single bowl of chicken soup on his tray, freshly re-warmed on the stove.  Nobody had even noticed.

They would be screaming in outrage, he was sure, but he didn’t care.  He’d already stepped out from the double doors anyway, slowly making his way to the table.

A single plate.  A single spoon.

The critic seemed frazzled, scratching his head in confusion as he looked at the suspicious bowl in front of him.

When he looked back up to see Kris staring right back at him with a hawk-like intensity, the critic immediately picked up his spoon, looking back down and prodding at the surface of the liquid with its tip.

“Er,”  The critic started, pointing down toward it with his free hand.

“I don’t think this isn’t what I ordered.”

Aware of the fact that all three waiters and his boss were now frantically hovering in the back, forming Xes with their arms and slicing their hands desperately across their throats in an attempt to make him stop, Kris still refused to break his gaze.

“Maybe not.  But it’s what you need.”

The man blinked at him slowly before sitting up straight, placing his forearms on the table as he stared down at the bowl below him.

Wafting the smell toward himself with a hand, the critic took it all in with a thoughtful sound and a curious tilt of his head.

With one last look at the sommelier who remained there staring, he sighed, digging his spoon in.  Pulling it back up, he blew on it just once, and then with one final indecisive look, slid it firmly into his mouth, closing his lips tightly around the spoon.

For a few seconds, it seemed to Kris that no one was breathing at all, all eyes firmly fixed on the man before him whose expression never changed.

Completely unblinking, the man said nothing, taking his time to pull the spoon from his mouth, swishing the mouthful slowly from one side to the other, and back again before swallowing.  It was a loud, disruptive noise.

He took maybe one or two smaller spoonfuls more - but he stopped, quietly setting his utensils back down on the white porcelain china.

Wiping his lips on a napkin, he set it on his lap, staring down pensively at the dish in front of him with no discernible reaction at all.

Finally, finally, he looked back up, ignoring the crowd of people who had begun to stare and giving his full attention to the sole man still standing there before him.

And yet, for whatever reason - “...give my regards to the chef.” - were the only words the critic chose to say.

It didn’t matter anymore, though, whatever it was he had or hadn’t been expecting.  He only knew that he had what he needed already.  He’d already made up his mind.  And it seemed the critic had too.  So Kris nodded back in return.

Walking back to the kitchen with the plate in his hands, he placed it in Baekhyun’s outstretched arms before slowly reaching over to take off the metallic nametag that had been pinned to him since the very start.

He placed it quietly in the owner’s hands.

Mr. Choi looked down at it.

“...I quit.”  Kris said, all the while a strange look forming slowly on his face, as if he’s just realized something important.

-

“Sorry for letting you know so late.  But you’ll come visit, right?”

Lay was a mess, having apparently just rolled out of bed with a still sleep-addled expression and wild, poofy hair, a mouth full of disbelief and revelations and voice-cracking shouts of ‘...what? What? ...wait WHAT?’s.

Looking past Kris’ shoulder though, he could see the car was packed to the brim with precariously balanced lamps and lampshades, boxes and boxes and boxes of assorted odds and ends.  Kris himself was a whirlwind of energy, flattening the first grade teacher to the door like a pancake as he blew past, taking the stairs up to the second floor and the guest bedroom two steps at a time.

While his friend was still strained to understand what was going on, jumbling noises of confusion and frustration somewhere downstairs, Kris was already by the guest bedroom’s bedside, shaking Kiara gently awake and watching almost impatiently as she mumbled and grumbled her way to a waking state.

She seemed to realize that something was different almost immediately though, freezing in place from where she had been rubbing her eyes and turning to the side to face her father.  Her eyes were bright and hopeful, and for once Kris found that he could not and would not disappoint her, the smile on his face growing until his teeth were showing, a laugh on his breath already as he quietly told her to get ready.

“Ready?”  She whispered, reaching out to hold on tightly to one of her father’s long fingers.  “Ready for what?”

He had her backpack already in his hand, and before he said anything more, he handed it to her.

“...an adventure.”

She reached for it with a delighted smile, the gap in the front of her teeth as charming and sweet as her laugh.

-

It was a highway for miles.  Long stretches of black concrete and white, blinking lines.  The lights of the city faded into the distance, the hills and trees that replaced it fading into a wide and wondrous landscape of long, rolling yellow, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Kiara was sitting in the back, squished in somewhere between the piles of pillows and blankets, stuffed animals shoved in every nook and cranny to protect and accompany her.

Half asleep but with a smile on her face, she was listening to something on her iPod, eating a handful of gummy bears he had bought for her at the last truck stop because - because - because why the hell not?

Kris grinned up at the rearview mirror, shifting an arm to rest on the outside of his tiny little Acura.  The warm wind blew in, ruffling his for-once ungelled hair wildly.

He breathed in the scent of open air and wheat, of a summer that was just starting.

And they sailed away for miles on a rumbling sea of black concrete and yellow wheat, listening to nothing but the sound of wind rustling through their ears, and the tires along the dirt.

-

Halfway along the way, they stop at a motel for the night, some nondescript one that was cheap enough that he didn’t feel robbed, but still one that took his cards without suspicious looks or questions.

He tucked his already sleeping daughter into the bed, pressing a stuffed bunny into the crook of her arm to hold onto and pulling the thumb from .  He placed a soft, affectionate kiss on her forehead.

Back again in the parking lot at some point during the night, he became determined to somehow find - in this colossal mess that used to be his trunk - a toothbrush.  Somewhere.  God, even toothpaste would do.  At this point he couldn’t exactly afford to be picky.

But as he was sifting through the boxes, trying to find a needle in the haystack, he happened to shift the same box he’d received a week earlier that he’d repurposed for the trip - and in doing so, he finally jostled free the envelope that had been stuck to its bottom the entire time.  By this time it was a half crumpled, half torn little thing, all frayed edges and water stains on its back from where the moisture from the soup packaging had seeped through.

Setting down the boxes he had in hand, Kris picked it up, turning it around slowly.

To: Mr. Kris Wu, it read at the top, in a faint scribble that was distantly familiar to him.

When he eyed it closer, he noticed it was postmarked to him from France.

-

He decided not to open it up that night.

Too raw, he thought, not liking the way his stomach was already rolling at the thought of what could be in the envelope, fingers both itching to tear it open and to throw it straight into the trash.

So he slept on it.

The next morning, while Kiara was still bundled up in her bed, half of her hair plastered to her face, the other half strewn across her pillowcase like strands of lightning, he decided it was best to decide what exactly he felt about it over a cup of fresh coffee.

Checking on his daughter one more time, Kris smoothed her hair back, patting the blankets with one last fond smile before heading out the door.  The envelope was tucked firmly under his arm.

There was no fancy restaurant in this town.  In fact, Kris would have even hesitated to call it a town.  A gas-station-and-motel combo, clearly designed solely for the convenience of the travelers and passers-bys, not meant to give a lasting impression of any sort to anyone who might actually have wanted to stay.

But, at least there was a diner.  One whose neon sign was still mostly working, although the ‘D’ faded in and out like the hopes and dreams of the waitress who greeted him, all tight curly frizz and a bubble-gum-popping, eye-rolling attitude.

He ordered a coffee - black - like your soul, Tao would often joke with a leer - and sat himself down at the booth at the very end.

The red leather groaned noisily as he sank into it.

Minutes later, the coffee finally arrived, steaming and dark and straight from a fresh pot.

He thanked the waitress quietly, accepting the cup with two hands.

After a moment of staring down at its contents though, he chose not to take a sip, pushing it away to the side and picking up the envelope instead.

He checked the address again, but there was no doubt about it - it was very clearly meant for him.  But ...why?  After all these years.

Kris rubbed at his chin hard for a few hesitant seconds before shifting in the booth, settling back in for the long haul as he turned the envelope over and carefully, methodically, pulled it open.

...Kris, it began simply, the letters of his name still written in a looping hand that was as delicate as it was distinctly hers.

Kris.

-

Kris,

Most letters usually start with a ‘how are you’, or a ‘I’ve missed you’, but - it’s funny sometimes, how time can make simple things so difficult.

I’ve written this letter a hundred times over the years.  Mostly in my head.  On paper you see, I find it’s often harder to sort through all the details, all the little things that have happened between now and then.

I’m remarried now.  To a wonderful doctor who owns a small clinic in Brittany, where we met.

We have a lovely cottage.  I can tend to my garden there, and raise our two children in peace and quiet.

Mathieu is nearly three now.  He’s energetic and naughty, and likes nothing more than to get underfoot while his father is hard at work.  A ‘little firecracker’, as you Americans might say.  When he behaves, though, his father tells me that there is nothing in the world sweeter than his smile.  I’m sure if you could only see it, you would agree.

Alice, on the other hand, was born just shy of three weeks ago.  She came out after twenty hours of hard labor, a tiny, hard little bundle, all quiet, pale and still.  We almost thought there was something wrong with her - but my husband told me that perhaps - perhaps she was too afraid to leave the comfort of my womb.  Afraid that I might leave her.

That night, watching her shiver and cry all alone in a little glass crib, I couldn’t help but to remember.  At this age, they bear a striking resemblance.

The bow of her lips.  The sound of her cries.  The way she smells, her skin so soft and fragile.

I told myself, back then, that I would leave it all behind, that I would allow myself no guilt for what had happened so, so long ago - but the truth is, that night spent watching her, I cried harder than I have ever had in my life, trying to imagine what she was like, when she was Mathieu’s age.

Was she an energetic child?  Did she cry and fret much?  What about her favorite color?  What is it?  Is it a light cornflower blue, like her brother’s?  Or lily white, like her mother’s?  And her food?  Is she picky?  Does she suffer from any allergies?  Is she the type who leaves the nightlight on?  Is she scared of the monsters in her closet?

... and would she forgive me?  If I ever saw her again.

I don’t have the answers to any of these questions, and that is perhaps what makes it hurt as much as it does.  Like a boulder, resting heavily between my shoulders.

Seven years ago, I was too young and insecure.  The child I had was nothing more to me than a burden.  Seven years ago, it was all about the anger.  The bitterness.  All I wanted was to punish you.  To blame you for the life you had given me that I did not want.

And there you were - you - always trying to tell yourself that if you worked just a little bit harder, if you pushed yourself just a little bit more, that everything would eventually work out.  While you were too busy seeing things the way you always wanted to, I saw things for the way that they were.  I could never pretend that things were perfect.

That... does not make it right, though, what I did to you.  ...what I did to Kiara.

But it wasn’t until I held little Mathieu in my arms for the first time that I realized that there was no greater joy in this world, than to see him and know that he was mine.  Maybe that is what you felt when you first held Kiara in your arms.  She was the only gift I ever gave to you, but I knew back then, staring at your face wet with tears - that she was the best gift I could have ever given.

I do not know why it is I am writing this to you now.  After so many years, I can only imagine the bitter resentment you must hold towards me and what I have done.  To that end I know that not even a thousand sincere apologies could make up for the years that we have lost.

For what little it is worth, though, I want you to know that there is not a day that goes by, where I do not stop to ponder those what-ifs.

I’m happy now.  Finally, after years of searching, I’ve found myself and my place in life.  I only ask that you do not try and find me.

Perhaps - when Kiara is old enough to make her own decisions - should she ever express to you the desire to come find me, I will welcome her here with open arms.  And although perhaps the love came too little too late - she was, and will always be, my dear daughter.

As for you, I will always remember those days fondly, when you and I shared something beautiful together.  I will always wish you happiness, from wherever you are in this vast, vast world.

I only hope that you find it, because there was never anyone who deserved it more than that young man who arrived in the middle of summer with nothing more than a breathless smile and a kind heart.

Goodbye.

Louise

-

He read it once, twice, and a third time before finally folding the paper in half, sliding it back into its envelope and setting both quietly down on the table.

The muffled sounds of dinnerware and rushing water slowly came flooding back to him, and the air smelled like freshly baking pies.

His eyes slid down to the now cool mug.

The coffee, he noted, as he picked it up and took a sip - wasn’t half bad.

Mild complexity, medium acidity - maybe even a little woody, he thought absently to himself, staring out through the slotted blinds at the sun that was just beginning to rise in the horizon.

Starbright, with just a hint of hope.

His lips twitched.

Kris pulled his pockets for change, leaving the waitress five crisp dollars lying on the table, weighted down by a single gold ring.

-

Jongdae has seen his fair share of strange customers.

Frat boys here for mardi gras with bright neon sunglasses and enough testosterone to match their fleshy pink sunburns - crazy, bug-eyed older folk for whom the dictionary definition of ‘cantankerous’ was based upon - and the occasional stoner, red eyed and dumbfounded, mouth hanging open but with never enough coherence to speak.

Still, he’s not particularly worried.  He’s got a shark-like grin and a biting tone of voice that usually surprises most people into ordering right away when he prompts them.

Besides, if anyone gives them trouble, it always helps that his stepbrother and business partner has got full sleeves of nasty looking tattoos, a back rolling with muscles, and a scowl that makes most men piss their pants.  Nevermind the fact that the moment said stepbrother opens his mouth, he turns into some high-pitched giggling ooey gooey marshmallow of a man who nobody’s afraid of.  It’s the first impression that counts most, anyway.

And the first impression that he has of the two customers coming his way now just screams ‘clueless tourist’ to him.

He’s not even sure if they’re coming up to him to order food or for directions, because the little girl riding on her father’s shoulders is so wide-eyed at just about everything she sees, and the father himself is walking up toward him with a weird gait - as if he’s tiptoeing on eggshells.

...man, who knew sandwiches could be so intimidating?

He’s already leaning over the counter, ready to ask them if they needed some help, some suggestions maybe - but then the kid holds her arms out abruptly, reaching for the stuffed toy that they’ve always got hanging over the sign.

Personally, he thinks it’s really in’ stupid looking, but his stepbrother’s been sentimental these days.  Doesn’t even let him touch it.

That being the case, he’s practically leaping over the countertop, waving away her fingers before she can reach it.

“Hey, hey, hey, you can look, but you can’t touch.  That’s not yours!”

But then the girl is looking back at him with an expression that says yes it is, and he looks at her father who is staring straight back at him with some strange, desperate look in his eyes, and it all clicks.

“Oh boy.”  He mutters, clipped and completely deadpan.

Staring down at the two of them for a few seconds more as if unable to believe his eyes, he takes a few slow steps backward into what little space they have to work with inside the food truck.

The first thing he does is to call out his stepbrother’s name, only to be ignored by the man who is bobbing his head and doesn’t hear him over the sound of the loud music he always plays.

The second thing he does is to reach over and turn the radio off.  Call his name again.  Busy handling the grill though, all his stepbrother does is to grunt without turning.

“...what.”

The third and last thing he does is to smack his brother in the shoulder.  Hard.  This has the man looking up with a flash of annoyance.

“What!”

Jongdae just looks at him.

It doesn’t look like his stepbrother understands what message he’s trying to convey with his laser eye beams, but the little girl helps by making a noise, all wet and soft, like she’s about to burst into tears.  She looks it too.

His stepbrother perks up immediately at the sound, freezing in place.

“...Tao?”  The father calls, hoarsely, with a thick, trembling voice.  An expression of shocked disbelief slowly slides onto his stepbrother’s face.

Seconds later, when the little girl finally speaks, Tao gathers himself, spinning around with a choked cry of his own.

“...daddy!”

-

TableTops has always held a special place in my heart.

You see, when I was starting out in my own career, one of the very first restaurants I ever reviewed was a tiny little establishment on the corner of North Main.  The executive chef there at the time was one Chef Do, who was, by all standards, the textbook definition of perfect.

His lobster bisque?  I’m kissing my fingers as we speak.  His beef bourguignon?  Oh good lord.  And let’s not even start on his duck pâté.

But it’s been years since those days.  Personally, I’ve no idea where Chef Do is now.  A part of me would like to think that he’s still doing well for himself, maybe across the sea somewhere, cooking for those with as distinguished of palates as his food would dictate.

In the time that followed his departure, I hesitated to visit TableTops again.  It’s been through a string of small-time, mediocre cooks who’ve done their best to maintain the standard of quality that the restaurant is known for - and yet there was no one who truly elevated the restaurant as much as the original Chef did himself.

...and then I heard a rumor through the grapevine, of a new chef.  A young genius, they called him.  King Midas, apparently, with hands of gold.

But you have to understand.  I’ve seen hundreds of new chefs rise, fail, and fall over the years that I’ve written Kim’s Spice Rack.

I’ve never been a particularly good cook myself.  Yeah, I’ll be the first to admit it.  My hands are too clumsy to hold a knife properly, and I flinch like a baby whenever I get too close to a pot of hot oil.  But hey, I can tell the good from the bad.  In fact, I’ve built an empire for myself with it - my entire career has been based off of all that I’ve seen and all that I’ve tasted and thanks to it, I’ve been able to visit places all over the world that I can’t even begin to pronounce - all in search of something new.  Because that’s what we want, right?  Something new.

So, to be told that maybe what I’ve been searching for all along was here, back home where everything started?

It was almost an insult.  No way.  Things couldn’t have changed that much.

Good as it was, I was so disappointed to see that it was still the same overcharged price for tiny bites of food.  (Who is supposed to live off of something like that?)

I went through the appetizers (turkey wrapped with bacon) completely unimpressed.  The first course (veal ragout) was, disappointingly, the same affair.  The flavors were there, but it all seemed too clean.  Too uninspired.  I was starting to believe that my entire meal would be much of the same.

...sometime between the first and the second course though, there arrived something so singularly horrible that I can’t even begin to describe it - although I’ll try my best.

It looked like some kind of lumpy soup.  Almost grey in color and clearly not fresh - probably even frozen, if I could guess by its awful consistency.

The strangest part was that the wine steward, some tall handsome man who I’m sure my female readers would swoon over, placed it in front of me with no indication of what it was or why exactly I was being given it.  I hadn’t ordered it all.

But he just stood there, like he was expecting me to eat it.

Well, farewell, friends and supporters!

If I die here eating this mystery grey soup of the day, I said to myself, holding that spoonful of quivering goop in front of my mouth with trepidation, at least I’ve died for a noble cause.  Then I bit the proverbial bullet, and put it in my mouth.

Here’s where you’re expecting me to write a couple paragraphs describing the flavors, the textures, the aroma.

...but you ever get that feeling of deja vu?  Like when you see something while you’re passing down the street that you felt like you’d just seen before, or when you overhear snippets of a conversation that you swear you’ve just had.  That feeling of something so distinctly familiar.

It’s unexplainable, really, but for me, someone who’s been on his feet day in and day out for the past decade, never stopping for anything other than to pay the bills - it reminded me of home.

Isn’t that strange?  That something I ate last night could remind me of a place I haven’t seen in years.

That kitchen table, where dad is sitting next to me, where mom is placing in front of me a bowl of hot soup.

How long has it been since I’ve been back to check on mom?  To see dad again?  How long has it been since I’ve talked to anyone and never expected anything back from them except for their unconditional love?  How long has it been, since I’ve gone home?

I always thought I was a good son, making a name for myself, making enough money to send home.  But ...maybe I haven’t.  Somewhere along the way to fame, I’ve somehow forgotten - how wonderful it feels like - to just sit down and enjoy a simple meal with someone I love.

And you?  What about you?  When was the last time you’ve put down your phone, logged off your computer, turned to your mother, and told her just how much you love her?

It doesn’t have to be an awkward thing if you don’t want it to be.  In fact, that’s what’s so magical about it - that something so simple could make you feel so good.  And everyone can relate to that kind of feeling, can’t you?

As for myself, try as I might, I could never find out just who it was exactly that made me that bowl of soup.

The chef I had been searching for had apparently long resigned.  Even the man who had served me disappeared too before I could even ask, and the circumstances surrounding it are both far too mysterious and numerous to count.

Hard as it may be, I’ll have to resign myself to perhaps never knowing whose talent it is I'm praising.

Someday though, somehow, I swear I’ll find you again.  And when I do, I’ll thank you.

You who gave me exactly what I needed most - chicken soup for the restless soul.

-

“Well?  Was it because of my cooking?  You just couldn’t live without it, could you?”

“You’re a great chef.  Never doubted that.  But you know that’s not why.”

“And… what if one day I decide New Orleans isn’t my kind of town?”

“Then we’ll find some place new together.  Kiara, you and I.  No more doubts.  No more fears.”

“What, and we’re doing all that in your tiny little car?  We’re not going to fit.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to buy a bigger one, won’t we?”

“...you offering to pay for that?”

“Maybe.  If you promise to behave.  Now, sweetheart, didn’t you tell me you were going to show us the best crawfish place in town?”

“God, I love my family.”