They talked about work, as they often did, and Sam began to feel calmer.
“I’m worried I might be fired,” Liz admitted, wrapping one hand around her cup of unidentified tea; Sam knew what he’d ordered for them of course, but Liz didn’t ask, and he didn’t feel compelled to volunteer the information.
He assumed she wanted him to comfort her, and so he reached across the table and rested his hand atop hers, just briefly, the way a friend might.
“Would your girlfriend let that happen?”
“I’m not sure Sasha can help.”
“Don’t be silly.” His voice was steady, and he wondered if he should reach his hand toward her once more. “Who would right now be looking for your replacement if you were going to be fired?”
Liz shrugged, appearing younger than she really was. “I suppose that’s true.”
“It’s certainly true. Just talk to her and see.”
There was a pause as they sipped their tea.
“And if your job is in danger, please let me know. I could perhaps help you find a new one, at one of the schools where I work. Maybe even a better job than talking to first graders.” Because Sam had heard her complaints about the work. He’d been listening and making plans.
“That’s so nice of you. Thank you.”
Sam nodded. “I’m your friend, you know?”
Liz wasn’t very good at making eye contact, but if she held it for a moment you could see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I know.”
She didn’t have friends. Not really. There was the girl next door when she was 11. They spent six weeks during the summer before fifth grade practicing kissing through their t-shirts; wearing two halves of the same silver necklace; playing hopscotch with no shoes on, the soles of their feet turning blue from the chalk. But when school started the girl had looked through Liz as though she didn’t know her.
In junior high, Liz was always invited to all the things the whole class was invited to. Later she was invited to all the things Bryan was invited to. Everyone knew her name, but were they her friends? Liz never thought so.
“I have a favor to ask of you, too.”
“Of course!” she answered, because she felt indebted.
“I need a date. To my friend Li Qin’s birthday party.”
Liz made thinking noises and then listed for Sam the expats she knew who might want to be set up. There weren’t many options, but surely someone would be available.
“I’m sorry,” Sam interrupted her. “I wasn’t clear. I was hoping you would come with me to the party.”
“Oh… I…”
“I know you are with Sasha,” he rushed. “I just need a friend who can pretend. Li Qin has someone he’d like me to take, and my mother also knows a girl…”
“But you don’t want to go with either of them,” Liz finished for him.
He nodded, relieved he didn’t have to say it.
“I can be your pretend date.”
It didn’t occur her to ask why he didn’t find a real date he did want to take. She was flattered, and she wanted to go.
But she waited too long to tell me.
2.
Expats in China are used to waiting. They wait in consulates for visas; at police stations to register their addresses; at the medical offices for their exams; at the banks to open accounts, deposit into accounts, withdraw from accounts, or for the forms required to prove they had accounts; they wait in lines at local convenience stores to pay their utility bills, and in the grocery stores to check their bags; they wait for subways and busses and taxis. Everywhere they are waiting for taxis.
Dorian was waiting, too. For a while, he thought about the apartment everyday: scouted neighborhoods, imagined the most preferable floor plans, perused the interior design magazines scattered around his office, debated the question of ordering furniture from abroad (extravagant) versus buying in China (risky). After a couple of months of this, however, he’d begun to feel ridiculous, like a cat on a leash, controlled by Shanghai bureaucracy. Or like one of those small dogs he saw being pushed in strollers all over the city; most of the time they were wearing dresses.
He knew he was taking the whole thing too personally. There were no bureaucrats sitting around some smoke-filled conference room talking about him. “Should we give the American his foreign investor today?” Much laughter. “I heard he’s starting to look at carpet samples.” More laughter. “Let’s let him dangle a little longer.” It wasn’t happening, he knew. He wasn’t the protagonist in a Kafka novel. But sometimes he just wondered.
Finally, he received a letter notifying him of his time to appear at the Office of Foreign Investment. Once he arrived, though he had the appointment, he waited in a line that at first glance seemed quite short but turned out to be interminably unmoving.
The other four people in line were all men, all white. They didn’t make eye contact with each other—no shared sigh, shrug, or eye roll; Dorian was used to instant camaraderie amongst lăowài; he didn’t know how to handle this silence.
They were older than Dorian, had likely been to the office before, conducting the kind of “important” business Dorian’s brother would approve of. Ah, Simon. Dorian chuckled to himself at the thought of his brother standing in this line. But no. Simon would never have made it to this line. Simon would’ve given up at the wait for the appointment, or perhaps even earlier: the official stamp on the bank record, or the Bureau of Employment Verification. For all his talk of seizing days, of early birds and worms, Dorian knew that Simon opted always for the well-paved road. His success depended on the work of others. It had been true since high school. He was student council president thanks to his campaign manager girlfriend; he floated through honors classes thanks to the study groups he charmed his way into.
It used to make Dorian jealous, but he’d come to see it as a major character flaw. He would rather have patience and perseverance than luck and charm. But then, Dorian did have charm. At least some people thought so—his co-workers, for example, and sometimes his dates. I apparently didn’t think he had any, but he was trying to put that behind him. He must’ve been waiting to run into me again so he could demonstrate just how far behind him it was.
He was finally called into an inner office—after the other four more important-looking men in line—and he knew immediately from the bare, dingy walls, the smaller than normal desk, the man’s uniform, that this was a bullshit meeting with a low-level functionary. The man was smoking a cigarette, tapping ash periodically into an already brimming ashtray. His hair hung down in his eyes and his jowls hung below his chin. He gestured to the seat opposite his desk, and when Dorian sat, he nodded and slid a form over. It was all basic information, everything that was included in his file with Yang Xue and submitted along with his request for this appointment: name, occupation, passport number, date of visa, income, bank account number. The man leaned forward in his seat, pushing himself halfway out of his chair and dangling his cigarette precariously between his lips, attempting to read Dorian’s answers as he wrote. When Dorian finished, he slid the form back across the desk and was informed that the agency would contact him.
“When?” Dorian asked.
The man raised his palms to the ceiling.
Dorian prepared to wait some more.
Not knowing how long he’d be trapped in this purgatory of paperwork, Dorian decided thinking about the apartment was too depressing, and he tried to stop. Not thinking about the apartment, it turned out, was equally depressing: his life, he realized, was empty. Forget the question of whether a new apartment—carpets and tile and stainless steel appliances, sleek modern furniture, high thread-count sheets—could ever fill such a void. He just needed something to tide him over.
Which is how he found himself at Blue Frog, holding a martini glass the size of a toaster oven. Dorian stared down at his nearly empty drink, contemplating what to do next. He hadn’t been back to Blue Frog in a long time. It was near the Xujiah
ui Mall, another place he didn’t go anymore. With all its high-end stores—Guess, Marc Jacobs, and the like—the mall felt entirely too American to Dorian, too much like Pioneer Square back home in Portland, where his mother met her friends for afternoons of lunch and shopping.
He groaned and pulled out his phone, in need of a distraction. Where have you been? he tapped. The Blue Frog misses you. He set the phone down on his leg and waited for my response, turning to face the rest of the bar and leaning his back against his table. Half the people in the bar, he guessed, were trying to text their way out of their current situations, looking for any available options.
That’s how expats are.
No one ever goes to a place just to be there. Each bar is a stopover until the next text comes in, the next taxi pulls up out front. At the next bar—wherever it is—there’ll be smaller crowds, or bigger ones, cheaper drinks, or better ones. There’ll be something you don’t even know you’re looking for, or someone looking for you.
Dorian didn’t know if it was the same in American bars. Before China he’d lived in Seattle, working for the same firm he did now, talking to anyone who would listen about being transferred to the Shanghai office. Always at his best when focused on achieving a goal, he worked late and spent much of his free time keeping up on his Mandarin. He didn’t go to bars much. He didn’t like feeling adrift.
Now he had no choice. He’d met up with some people from the office, but they’d long since scattered around the bar, or followed their text leads to other locales. One girl, new in the office (and to the country) had lingered around Dorian for a bit, tossing her hair and occasionally touching his arm, sipping her drink in a way he understood was supposed to look sexy but came off forced, somewhat desperate. Dorian contemplated, briefly, playing a game: How Horribly Will You Allow Me to Behave? For example, could he get her to pay for his drinks? Could he get her to pay for his drinks and then give him a blow job in the bathroom? Could he take the blow job and then put her in a cab home by herself?
In college, Dorian—like most of his friends—had been inadvertently horrible to women. At first he didn’t realize what he was doing. Once he learned, he’d turned it into a game, seeing how far he could go. He assumed that at least half the time he’d be slapped in the face, and he accepted that. But it never happened. Eventually he saw there was no point to a game he couldn’t lose. He contemplated playing tonight out of boredom, but then imagined the awkwardness in the office on Monday and thought better of it. He really was growing up.
Of course, not trying to get the blow job in the bathroom made it increasingly likely that it would happen. The girl was hard to get rid of, but eventually he’d told her that his good friend John—“you know John, the quiet guy with the cube in the corner”—was desperately in love with her, and Dorian just wouldn’t forgive himself if something happened between them. She’d looked at him sweetly, kissed him full on the mouth like they were both saying goodbye to something wonderful that could never be, and left. Dorian guessed from the kiss that she’d give a lousy blow job. He’d ordered another martini. That was an hour ago.
His phone buzzed to life. Is that some nickname for your penis? If so, not sexy. Also, inaccurate, as of course you know “the blue frog” and I have never met.
Dorian laughed out loud and rubbed his chin, trying to formulate a response. The reason he’d never lost the How Horrible game was that he’d never played it with someone like me.
You know I can always arrange an introduction, he typed, and then pictured me rolling my eyes and tossing my phone to the side of my bed. He quickly revised. How crass! I was simply inviting you out for a drink. Send.
It’s a little late for invitations out on a Friday night, isn’t it? Do you think I’m just sitting around in my fancy pants, waiting for a gentleman caller?
Dorian looked around the bar, smiling, wishing momentarily for someone toward whom he could tip his phone. But then, no. He wanted it just to himself.
I recognize you and your fancy pants must have many other offers. But then, you are free to answer text messages…
It’s intermission at the opera.
A perfect time to cut and run!
My date would be so disappointed.
He’s probably wearing fancy pants himself. Ditch him, I say.
I heard the water turn off in Liz’s shower and set my phone down, waiting for her to come in the bedroom, cocooned in her fuzzy bathrobe, smelling like jasmine shampoo. I debated telling her about Dorian: He’s flirting with me, look. It’s hilarious. I wondered, briefly, what jealousy might add to the relationship stew I’d been simmering, allowing to thicken: a hint of spice, perhaps, or too much bitterness? Don’t worry, I could have said. It’s all because of you. He only wants me now because I’m in love. I’m glowing and he can sense it.
Heather had made me sparkle, silver-white and hot, a supergiant star. My father noticed the glow and did what he could to make sure no one else ever saw it. His jaw got tighter and tighter in the days after he’d seen the two of us naked and entangled. I was mortified, but Heather had been set free. She kissed me whenever she wanted after that, whether my father was around or not. I was living with him that summer, while she and I made plans, and it seemed he was always around. And if not him, then people he knew. Life in a small town.
I was resolved to ignore his pleas for discretion, but they sent Heather over the edge. At first, I was flattered that she was fighting him on my behalf, until I realized she was fighting for herself. She’d had enough of my cowering but wasn’t going to leave quietly. I was surprised at how quickly my light and heat faded after she’d gone. I was a moon, I realized, just reflecting her.
It was different with Liz. I pictured my aura as I re-read Dorian’s texts—soft and pillowy, like cotton candy. Gold, with a slightly pink shimmer. It kept me warm and gave me goose bumps. Liz came into the room, damp and fluffy, the living embodiment of my love glow. I stared at her, squinting. I wanted to kiss her.
“I should get in the shower,” I said instead, distracting myself from thoughts of my aura out of fear I would accidentally tell Liz that I loved her. Because I wouldn’t be the one to say it first.
“What are you up to tonight?” she was pulling tank tops out of her closet, trying one on and then another.
I stopped halfway through undressing. “I thought I was going to Guandii with you.”
“Oh.” She paused and looked at me. “I didn’t…I mean, I thought…”
I cocked my head. “Unless…I’m not invited?” It was obvious I wasn’t, but I phrased it as a question anyway.
“It’s not really my place to invite you,” she answered finally. “I mean, it’s Sam’s friend’s party.”
“Right. Of course. Sam’s friend’s exclusive, invitation-only gathering in the corner of a public nightclub.”
“It’s not that. It’s just…I mean—”
“Stop saying ‘I mean,’” I interrupted, “unless you’re going to say what you actually mean.”
“Fine. Sam asked me to be his date.”
“His date?”
“Not like a real date,” she rushed to add.
“You’re going on a date?”
“Will you just listen?” she snapped. “Li Qin keeps trying to set Sam up, and he didn’t want to deal with it. He asked me to come as a pretend date, just to shut his friends up.”
Suddenly aware that I was still half-naked, I pulled my t-shirt back over my head. “So does a pretend date put out at the end of the night?”
She glared at me and then turned and left the bedroom. A moment later I heard the blow dryer turn on. I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up over my head. I couldn’t tell if I was being mean, or if she was.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make this clear earlier,” she burst in talking loudly. She’d amped herself up in the bathroom, had worked out all her arguments. “I should have explained. I’m sorry you were expecting to come. Sam asked me as a friend. I’m trying to be a go
od friend.”
“It’s fine,” I answered from underneath the covers. I didn’t know how to take apologies, but then it didn’t sound like she was sorry.
“I hope you have an okay night.” She’d finished getting ready and leaned down to kiss me goodbye. She’d gone with wide leg jeans fitted tightly across her butt, a short sleeve light blue top, and, to my surprise, her pearls.
“You’re wearing pearls to Guandii?” I sat up in bed, her bad fashion choices apparently enough to make me forget my anger.
She turned away from me to look in the mirror. “What? It’s kind of a retro look.” She shrugged, and then smiled at me.
“But Elizabeth. The wedding day pearls—at a nightclub? What would your mother say if she saw you now?” It was easier to pretend I wasn’t hurt.
“I think she’d have more questions about the woman I’m sharing a bed with than the pearls I’m wearing out.” She landed the kiss she’d intended earlier and then straightened up, smoothing her shirt. “I’ll see you later.”
“Have fun,” I said. I didn’t mean it.
She closed the door behind her and I felt like a child who’d been tucked in for the night, left with the nurse while Mummy in her pearls went out.
I reached for my phone, intending to bring it out into the living room with me and put on a movie. The conversation with Dorian was still up on the screen. I did think before I texted, but not for very long.
Opera’s over. Want to hang out?
Forty minutes earlier, I would’ve been confident of a quick response from Dorian, but who knows what he was doing then. Texting makes real conversation impossible. Forty minutes before, he was likely waiting for some biting response to his suggestion that I ditch my date. How long did he keep his phone in his hand before sighing and setting it down? Was it on the table next to him or in his pocket? Or had he even noticed the delay? I was perhaps one of many possibilities for Dorian that night. I chose a movie—Ocean’s Eleven. I found the scant dialogue, Vegas jazz, and tones of gold and burgundy soothing. I couldn’t just sit next to my phone all night.
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