Tag Archives: sushi

Plaster of Paris; chapter ten, part one

“I’m going to see Paris,” I say defiantly, striding towards the room.  I positively itch for a confrontation, but this officer, yet a different one, lets me in as soon as I give her my name.  I sit down. “It’s a mess, Paris.  I’m no closer to finding out who did this to you, and worse yet, I quit my job today.  Sort of.”  I pour out everything, not wanting to bottle up my feelings.  As I’m talking a glimmer of something comes to my mind, but it’s gone.  I don’t try to push it because I know it’ll come to me sooner if I let it simmer.  I want more than anything for Paris to open his eyes, for him to smile at me, for him to come home.  “Oh, god,” I sob, my head dropping forward.  How much longer can I stand to see Paris like this?  I long to shake him by his shoulders until he awakes.

“Ma’am, it’s time.”  The officer carefully places her hand on my arm, her eyes showing sympathy.

“Mom, let’s get out of here for a bit,” I say to my mother in Taiwanese.  “Just you and me.”

“What about Lyle?”  My mother asks, casting a worried glance at Lyle who isn’t paying any attention to us.  “We can’t leave him here by himself.”

“That’s rude, you know,” Mr. Jenson says suddenly, interrupting our conversation.  “Talking in a foreign language in front of people who don’t speak it.  Besides, this is America.  Speak English.”

“There’s no mandate that says we have to speak English,” I say heatedly, a flush creeping up my neck.  We had been rude, but I am too edgy to apologize.

“Rayne and I are going to run back to her apartment for a bit,” my mother says evenly.  “Lyle, would you like to come with us?”

“I’ll stay here,” Lyle says, glaring at the Jensons.  Mrs. Jenson avoids his eyes, but Mr. Jenson glares right back.

“You sure, honey?”  Mom asks Lyle, squeezing his arm solicitously.  He nods, not taking his eyes off Mr. Jenson.  My mother and I reluctantly leave them.

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter four, part two

“She give you a rough time?”  He asks as we get into his car.  For a moment, I can’t answer.

“Why didn’t you tell me you fucked Max?”  I blurt out.  I didn’t mean to ask him this way, but I can’t get it out of my mind.  The thought of him having sex with Max is just too repugnant to bear.

“What?”  Fortunately, Paris isn’t driving yet as he freezes at the wheel.  “Who told you that?  Did the inspector tell you that?  How did she know?”

“Apparently Max told her.”  Now that I’m working through the shock, I wonder why Max told the inspector in the first place.

Paris begins driving, and I prudently hold my tongue though I’m dying to jump down his throat for this one.  Put aside the ramifications concerning the murder, how could he not tell me?  Worse yet, how could he lie to me?  I feel like a spurned lover, as I’ve been completely honest about every exploit I’ve ever had.  How could he have held this back from me?  Paris struggles to explain that it was just one time early in their relationship before they both realized they were better off as friends.  Although he emphasizes that both of them made the decision, I have a feeling that Max would be more than willing to have a second round in the sack with Paris.  As I’m grappling with my emotions and trying not to feel too betrayed, the salient question pops into my head.  Why did the Max tell the cops about it if it really was just a one-night stand?  As I mull it over, I can’t escape the conclusion that Max is setting Paris up.

As usual, Paris blows his top when I suggest that perhaps Max doesn’t have his best interest in heart.  Despite everything he’s told me, there is definitely something going on between the two of them other than friendship.  Paris seems to have a blind spot about Max that even I cannot penetrate.  He accuses me of harping on her because I don’t like her.  While I admit my bias, I also point out that she’s the one who told the cops about them sleeping together.  She’s also the one who called him over to his place the night of the murder, perhaps to have him at the scene of the crime.  If the police are focusing on Paris as a suspect—and I think they are—it’s strictly Max’s fault.  By this time, we have reached our apartment, and Paris pulls up to the curb with a screech.  We don’t say anything else until we’re in the apartment.

“Rayne, you know I love you, but you are way out of line with this.  I don’t want to hear another word against Max.  She is not trying to frame me, and I’ll never forgive you if you tell that inspector this cockamamie theory of yours, understand?”  He glares at me, daring me to make one of my trademark flip responses.  I simply sigh and throw up my hands.

“I give up.  It’s on you.”  I walk into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge.  I don’t want to fight with Paris, but I think he’s been shortsighted about this.  I can’t promise I won’t mention my theory to the inspector if it seems appropriate.  I will not let Paris take the fall for something he didn’t do.

Paris does not take kindly to me walking away from him, and he follows me into the kitchen.  His voice is combative as he won’t let it go.  I’m more than prepared to stop talking about Max and how she’s out to get him, but Paris won’t drop the subject.  I rummage in the fridge so I won’t have to look at him as he rants, but he shuts the door firmly and turns me to face him.  He shakes his finger in my face as he admonishes me not to be bullheaded as I usually am and to think before I do anything.  I retaliate by telling him not to treat me as a child because I’m not one.  I walk back into the living room, my heart pounding.  Something about Max has him all turned around, and I have no idea what it is.  I hope whatever he has with her is worth losing his best friend over.

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Parental Deception; chapter fourteen, part one

“So. Sushi. School me.” Rembrandt says as we are seated at our table in Fujiya. He glances around him in appreciation at the bright and lively room around him. It’s busy as it always is, but the noise level is low.

“My favorite is unagi, which is barbecue eel,” I say. The look on Rembrandt’s face tells me he’s not on board, and I hasten to add, “It tastes just like barbecue meat, I promise. I know you’re hesitant to try raw fish, but hamachi, or yellowtail, is so fatty and good.” My mouth is watering, and I control myself with difficulty. “They also have noodles and tempura if you’re really against trying raw fish.”

“No, I want to try it. There’s no reason to go to a sushi place if I don’t.” Rembrandt sets down the menu and looks at me. “Tell you what. You order for the both of us, and I’ll trust you won’t pick anything that’ll kill me.”

“Sounds good to me!” I order pork gyozas and salmon cream cheese wontons as appetizers. I order a variety of sashimi, nigari, and rolls as entrees, making sure to include seafood ones in case he hates the raw fish ones. I order two miso soups and edamame as well. We talk about nothing in particular while waiting for our food. The appetizers come out in record time, and Rembrandt can’t stop raving about the salmon cream cheese wontons.

“These are amazing!” He exclaims as he gobbles down a second one. “We may have to order another helping because three might not be enough.”

“Wait until after we eat our sushi,” I counsel. “You may enjoy it so much, you won’t want more salmon wontons.”

“I will always want more salmon cream cheese wontons,” Rembrandt says, his eyes dilated in pleasure. “Thank you so much for bringing these into my life. I have to figure out how to make them.” I am pleased that I could give him something that brings him so much joy.

His eyes further widen when our sushi is brought to us. It is attractively arranged, and there is plenty of it. I have the Taiwanese curse of ordering four times more food than we can possibly eat. I act as his tour guide, pointing out the different fish and seafood. He gamely tries a bit of each, and soon, he’s gobbling down the sushi as fast as I am. I beam at him as I eat because I love it when I can widen the horizons of other people, especially with something as delicious as sushi. There’s no shame in not knowing something or not having tried something, but your real character shows through in how you respond to the challenge of trying something new. I have to admit that I’m not always open to change, but I’m trying to be more flexible. Taiji helps, quite a bit, in fact. Rembrandt and I are quiet as we devour piece after piece of sushi. By the time we slow down, there’s still plenty left. I don’t like bringing home sushi because it goes bad so quickly, but I admit defeat while there’s still a third of what I ordered left. We order green tea and sip it while our server boxes our leftover sushi. I have a hunch we’ll finish it tonight so it won’t go to waste.

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