Footsteps trooped down the steps. Then Lee entered the kitchen, the cuffs and front of his shirt undone, his tie hanging loosely around his neck like a noose. When he saw her fussing over his dish, he sighed. “Mom!”
The rest was lost in Cantonese, an angry string of fiery words like cigarette burns. His mother’s replies were just as quick and biting. I sat down in my chair and, eating my bagel, refusing to look at either of them.
What had happened to our mornings alone? My foot sliding up Lee’s pant leg while he read the paper and pretended I wasn’t turning him on? Our coffee time, our quiet time? She’d only been here one weekend and already I found myself wondering when she planned on going home again?