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I waited near the kitchen for my takeout order to be cooked. It was the night after Christmas. My body demanded something other than candied roast ham and mashed sweet potatoes. But my body did not demand this; bland, tasteless wheat pasta, sauces made quickly without love or emotion. Meaningless, inarticulate applications of scallions, chilies, and sea salt. Chicken, scallops, sliced pork loins –– it all looks the same after enough cuts from a Wüsthof model 6”. It was a culinary one-night stand. All I asked was something I could stick my fork into and love.

The place where lost credit cards go to die, the trash bin.

"Are you sure?" she said in a heavy accent, hesitating.

"Yes." the other woman replied. "When they realize they lost card, they will call to cancel, so go ahead and cut."

And then the sound of scissors working against the plastic card. I wondered if it had been totally out of the question for them to hold the card for at least a day.

She pressed her arms tight against her body for warmth and slunk across the room like a little black cat. We had let in the cold night air when we opened the door.

And a dinner of shoyu ramen and tempura.

And a dinner of shoyu ramen and tempura.