Rain, Book, and Potato Salad
Ann Yuan
We drank exotic cocktails at the party. I leaned toward the girl and told her a story I’d read in a book. Behind contact lenses, her eyes said Why me while her mouth uttered, “Interesting.” She ducked her head, honey-colored hair trickling down her neck. I could smell the fruity drink on her breath. Her boyfriend glanced our direction. I didn’t give a damn — even though it was his birthday.
Three days later, she came to my apartment. It was dark and raining. Her dress clung to her skin, outlining her breasts and hips. I invited her in and handed her a towel. She walked past me, bringing a fresh scent of spring with her. I made her hot tea and took out a bowl of potato salad from the fridge — a recipe I had learned from my mom: peas, diced sausages, and homemade mayo.
“Do you have any drinks?” she asked. In the dim light, she looked different — not like someone I knew but like someone I dreamed. I told myself that her wobbly relationship with her boyfriend held no guilt for me whatsoever.
The story was about the life of a young doctor. He traveled to a remote town and met a girl in a restaurant. One day, the girl arrived at the door of his place with a suitcase that contained her life. Against his rule of never spending the night with a woman, he let her stay, and eventually, he married her.
I kept returning to the story, wondering what I would have done if I were the doctor. In the end, I realized the only thing we had in common was a small apartment.
I held her face in my hands and kissed her.
“I’ve been thinking about you.”
I wasn’t sure who said that. She breathed heavily. I rolled up her soaked dress as if peeling off her skin. We were wet and cold and shivering. The sheet grew damp and very unpleasant. I pressed myself against her and wondered why the doctor let the girl stay when he knew she was clingy.
Rain pelted the roof. A light swept across the window. Somebody pounded at the door.
She quickly rubbed her hair with the towel. Droplets flew around, some landing on my face. She talked about the sudden change of weather, the lousy traffic, the red and green reflections on the glistening street that strained her astigmatic eyes. She wrapped the towel around her shoulders, smoothed her crumpled dress, then suddenly grabbed my elbow and told me she’d seen an accident on her way here.
The rain had given her a good rinse, and I noticed a riot of freckles running from the bridge of her nose to her cheekbones.
Gosh, she looked like a female version of Eddie Redmayne.
She kept talking about the accident — the medics, the gurney, and the confusion over whether the victim was a man or a woman — but I’d already lost interest.
The door was kicked open. Her boyfriend pounced on us. He punched me in the face and kicked me in the belly. I fell off the bed and hit my head on the table. Screaming. Cursing. Dull sound of explosion — the bowl was knocked to the ground and shattered.
For a moment, I didn’t move.
Finally, she said, “I’m starving.”
I led her to the kitchen. She opened the fridge and found a bowl of Shanghai-style potato salad — a Chinese appetizer adapted from the West. I’d made it that evening, but the creamy dressing had gone watery. It had lost its appeal. Who would want to eat that? My mother once said I was a superficial man. A perfectionist. I told her it wasn’t the appearance I cared about, but the effect of the appearance. Leftover vegetables not only looked lifeless but also could cause cancer. She laughed, wrapped them in cling film, and packed them for lunch.
The stale salad didn’t seem to bother the girl. She drew her feet up on the bed and took a spoonful of soggy potatoes. A drop of mayo oozed from the corner of her lip.
The motion of her chewing was oddly satisfying and hypnotic. We spoke again about the book, the one I told her about at the party. We both agreed that the ending was predictable. The doctor ended up jobless, the girl an unhappy housewife. The tragedy was that everyone saw it coming and still walked into it. It was sad, but I felt a great lightness from this conversation, like the slackness after sex.
Before I blacked out, I caught a flash of metal — a blade glinting in his hand. Her body jerked. A puddle of redness spread across the sheet.
“I’m really sorry,” I shouted, but there was no sound coming out of my mouth.
Her phone rang. It was her boyfriend. She told him she’d be right back. After she hung up, there was silence. The sound of the rain filled the space between us. She hadn’t come for food. What did I do? What should I do?
She stood up. “I should go before he worries.”
I thanked her for stopping by and promised to email her the recipe. After she left, I sat there wondering what would have happened if the doctor had stood firm and sent the girl back to the hotel. I was amazed by how weakness and desire could reshape lives when a tide of drowsiness pulled me under.
When I woke, the rain had stopped. It was dark outside. I looked at the human-shaped stain on the bed, picked up the bowl, and went to the kitchen.
