A Bowl Too Hot

The invitation arrives before Shuyin has finished her first cup of tea.

She reads the message at the kitchen table, one thumb resting on the edge of her phone. Then she types, “I can make it,” and sends it before she can turn the answer into another maybe.

The red thread runs through the wall, toward the office. I follow its pull as far as I can.

At lunch, the noodle place is crowded enough that they have to wait outside. Shuyin stands with the woman from her team beneath the awning, holding her coat closed against the breeze. Cars pass the entrance in a steady wash of noise.

“You said maybe,” the woman says. “I wasn’t sure if that meant yes.”

“I wasn’t either.” Shuyin tucks her hair behind her ear. “But I’m here.”

“That counts.”

They get a table near the front. The menu is laminated and stained at the corners. Shuyin studies it longer than the woman does, then points to a bowl with a red pepper printed beside its name.

“Do you know how spicy this is?”

“No,” says her coworker. “I picked the safest-looking one.”

“That has three peppers.”

“Oh. I thought those were little flowers.”

Shuyin laughs. It comes out briefly, with no warning, and her hand goes to her mouth as if she might still catch it. The woman laughs too. Then a server arrives to take their order, and the moment passes into the usual business of lunch.

The bowl is, as promised, too spicy. Shuyin takes one bite and reaches for her water. Her eyes shine. She keeps eating.

“Is it bad?” her coworker asks.

“It’s good.” Shuyin wipes her mouth with a napkin. “It’s just trying to kill me.”

“You can stop.”

“I know.” She lifts another bite. “I’m choosing this.”

Her coworker shakes her head and steals a piece of cucumber from the side dish. They talk about a delivery that has gone missing and whether the office heater is broken again. Shuyin listens, gives an answer when the conversation reaches her, and eats the rest of the bowl.

When they leave, she carries the taste of chili with her. The thread draws me after it, though it thins where the street turns and the buildings rise between us.

That afternoon, Shuyin works with a glass of water beside her keyboard. She doesn’t open the recordings. She finishes a task, replies to a message, and leaves the office with the others as the day ends. Her coworker calls after her about the address for another lunch. Shuyin says she’ll look at it, and this time she doesn’t add maybe.