“Are you dating anyone now?” I asked.
“Are you asking on behalf of national security?”
“This is a personal query,” I said, flashing my high-voltage smile for good measure.
“Well in that case, yes, I’m dating someone.”
She was clearly insulting me or at least pretending to. Truth was, I didn’t even like her and certainly didn’t want to date her. I really just wanted to see if I could. What can I say, maybe it’s a guy thing, but she gives great soup.
“Your dating situation,” I persisted, “would you classify it as a serious relationship?”
“Yes, I would,” she said. “But I wasn’t certain about that until just now.”
“Well congratulations,” I said dryly.
“Well thank you,” she said, matching my tone.
Suddenly, the heavy-set customer at the sushi bar yelled, “Fuck!” and jumped off his stool. He grabbed his throat and spun around in a circle as if his left foot had been nailed to the floor. “Holy Mother of God!” he screamed and spit a mouthful of something onto the floor-something I was pretty sure had to be the spider roll. He jumped up and down in a sort of death dance, coughing and shaking his hands profusely. He yelled, “I’ll sue you bastards! I’ll sue you for every cent you have!”
The waitress ran out from the kitchen, took one look at him, and said, “Is hot, yes?”
He gave her a withering look. “Yeah, it hot! It plenty, plenty hot! And I know you not recommend. But here in America, we have laws against serving battery acid. By the time I’m finished with you, you’re all going to wish you’d never left China!”
The waitress and sushi chef looked at each other. She said, “We Japanese. Not Chinese.”
The enraged customer flung his head toward the ceiling and yelled, “Fuck you!” He slapped his face twice, made a barking sound, and stomped off in a huff. Most of the customers laughed. Ally didn’t, so I stopped laughing and changed the subject.
“So the police took Kathleen’s word over Ken’s,” I said. “About the beatings.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I would, in fact,” I said.
I tried a half-spoonful of the soup and wondered if miso might be the Japanese word for week-old sweat socks.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “But I had reasons for believing Ken’s story.”
“Such as?”
“He never laid a hand on me. He never abused me verbally.”
“That’s it?”
“I never saw him lose control throughout our relationship. And even though Kathleen continued to accuse him of abuse, Ken never left her.”
I raised my eyebrows and watched to see if her cheeks would flush. They did, just slightly. She’d basically just admitted to dating Kathleen’s husband while they were still married. We both realized it, but I was the only one smiling about it.
