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“I come here to talk to you, Aim-zee.”
“It’s just Aimes.”
“Aimes,” the old woman says. “I like that name. Very good name.”
“What did you come here to talk to me about?” Aimes says.
“Oh yes. I come here to see how you doing. You sleeping well? Eating healthy?”
“What?” Again, Aimes looks around the café, wondering if there’s a hidden camera somewhere. This has got to be a prank. “Who are you?”
“I’m Vera, and I worried about you.”
“Why would you be worried about me?”
Now it’s Vera’s turn to look confused. “Because your boyfriend die. I think that make most people sad, when boyfriend die. Unless he is bad boyfriend?”
“Oh.” Of course she is here about Xander. Very few peoplehave actually heard the news of Xander’s death, but Aimes had known it was only a matter of time before the Internet found out. And when that happens, what would they find out about her? Aimes gives herself a mental shake. If this old woman is here to ask about Xander, she must be related to him. She softens with pity. “Are you his mom? His grandma?”
“Nothing like that. In fact, I am very confuse about who he is, I am hoping you can tell me.”
Panic churns in Aimes’s stomach. “I don’t know—” She stops herself. Her eyes brim with tears again. She is so bad at this. She is so bad at everything. “I’m sorry,” she sputters.
“Oh dear. Don’t get upset. Come, you eat this.” Somehow, Vera has produced a steaming container of what looks like pork rib soup. Aimes looks down at it blankly. A spoon is placed in her hand. “Eat,” Vera says, and Aimes does so without really comprehending just what the hell is going on.
The broth is somehow light and yet rich, a clean flavor that speaks of hours of gentle simmering that goes straight to Aimes’s belly and warms her up from within. If it were possible to be brought back to life by food, then that is what Aimes is experiencing. Except she doesn’t deserve to be brought back to life. Not after what she did to Xander.
“How long you been together with Xander?” Vera says, then adds, “Try the pork, fall off the bone.”
The pork rib is so tender that all it needs is a soft poke of the spoon before the meat slides off completely. Aimes’s brain is torn between squealing,Don’t eat food from strangers! Stranger danger!andOMG this is so good. I feel like a child again. I want a bedtime story now, please.Her mouth opens and says, “About eight months.”
“Quite long. You two look very good together.”
Yes, they do—did—look very good together; that was the whole point.
“What he like, this Xander? He treat you well?”
“Yes. He’s—he was—the perfect boyfriend.” The answer comes out automatically. She’s said it so many times. The perfect boyfriend. Whenever anyone asks, that’s the word Aimes and Xander always used. “Perfect.” Of course, all of their Instagram post captions talk about how impossible it is to reach perfection, how we shouldn’t strive for it, how we should always strive for authenticity instead. But that’s the thing about captions. You want to convey perfection while at the same time appearing like you haven’t toiled away at achieving it. You want to be effortlessly perfect. And that was what she and Xander were. Naturally, casually, perfectly perfect.
What Aimes expected Vera to do is go, “Awww,” like most people do. But what Vera actually says is, “Sound boring.”
“You can’t say that,” Aimes blurts out.
“Why not?”
Before Aimes can answer, a tall thermosthunksdown next to the container of broth. “Chinese tea. Pu-erh. Very invigorating, bring you back to life. You need it.” Vera unscrews it, pours out a cup, and puts it in Aimes’s hand. “Drink.”
Again, Aimes obeys without really thinking and nearly burns her mouth with it. She takes a smaller sip, and this time, she tastes it. A taste that is completely different from the dirty matchas and the oat milk lattes she’s been having every day for the last however many years. The word that comes to mind is…“authentic.” She looks down at the cup of tea. It looks completely unremarkable, something utterly un-Instagrammable and therefore uninteresting to her. And yet. Aimes takes another sip.
“Xander was a kind boy?” Vera says.
Aimes nods wordlessly. The less she says about Xander, the better.
“How was he kind? Give me example.”
Damn it. This old woman is something else. “Um, I don’t know, like the normal way.” She struggles to come up with an anecdote, but her brain seems to have been replaced by scrambled eggs.
“How you meet him?”