Navel
Emma Wu
And it is the crepe, plummed skin, sallow under her eyes. And maybe the twelve empty glass rice wine bottles that chime slowly in the wind outside of her cracked front window. In any case, The thin veneer of sun, here with us now, plated lazily between us. She laughs in bellied guffaws, her chest attenuated by the American great depression and hollow enough now to echo (can you hear it?). The fragile alabaster of doily after doily, lace lily pads on every surface. The stiff syrup of red wine spills our laughter on the ground. Does she mind that I walk her house like a forest? In any case, the small jade statues and collection of snuff bottles, mounted eye-level, make me feel comfortable. She makes us chrysanthemum tea. This was my grandpa’s favorite. In some ways, she does remind me of my family: worn silk slippers and secret love for polyester, silver hair dyed pitch, vegetables steamed with a tablespoon of sugar, almond eyes and eyelids without a crease. “Would you like another cup?” I indicate towards the tea, then the wine. She lets a gentle upturning of the lips blur her face, not quite happy but pleased. Her face beams scarlet and warm from the alcohol. “Tea, please,” she says as she purses her lips, allowing the mass of her body to weigh her towards the back of her upholstered armchair, a hand outstretched towards me and the tea pot. She lets her eyes close for the second I pour. Philadelphia doesn’t have much as far as an Asian community: a small enclave to escape Italian food, an even smaller arts organization. Occasionally, on the Market-Frankford Line, my small nod will be met, imitated. Mary’s real name is pronounced Kuh-Ling, and we met at a Philadelphia protest for Black Lives Matter. Can you imagine it, the gritty city, the city of brotherly love, lathered in the rage and reformation effort of tens of thousands? And a Chinese woman perched on the curb of the Parkway, squatting flatfooted and drinking a chocolate protein shake from a plastic bottle. I smile at her, for the irony, but she identifies as American so who’s to say. Mary pocketed my smile. Or maybe, coupled with sheer cultural deprivation, it felt genuine enough to pursue. Mary and I took to weekly drinking. And it is late last night when Liz comes home with her new and probably temporary man-friend who she probably met at the bar just a minute ago. And I know this story because I have seen it before. I wait for them to settle, clink an ice cube in each glass, to make my way to the bathroom, make my presence known to both Liz and visitor (I’m awake too, can you see? Just using the restroom. Totally casual.). Can I hear their whispers on the couch before dawn? “Hi, enjoy yourselves,” I squeak awkwardly as Liz turns and winks at me, leading her suitor to the bed in the room next to mine. I notice the whites of his eyes have fallen to a pleasant hue of pink, his shoes smack loudly on the linoleum. Her door shuts. To be this roommate in this shoot of patchy, incandescent light. I’ve seen her already: TV, movies, 42 | Issue 43
