Wang spoke English flawlessly, but there was an ease to him when he spoke his native tongue. She would be hard-pressed to define it, but it was sort of like a sense of fitting. Like wearing a comfortable garment. Even the timbre of his voice seemed to change, flowing and ebbing with the cadence of the words.
She looked around her, taking in the walls adorned with silk scrolls depicting Chinese landscapes, calligraphy, and mythological creatures. A small shrine with incense sticks, fresh fruit, and a gilded statue of some deity occupied one corner,and red paper lanterns hung from the ceiling beams, their warm glow creating a cozy, intimate atmosphere. The aromas of ginger and other spices she could not identify floated to her nose, making her mouth water and her stomach protest with hunger.
As a young girl, distant lands and cultures had fascinated her, and she had avidly read the stories of adventurers and explorers, entranced by their descriptions of faraway places. Now, this was the closest she could ever get to those places. Like traveling a thousand miles without leaving London.
A shame she would probably not be able to stay. There was no room for her wheelchair. At least, at this hour, there were no other patrons to gawk at her.Someday soon, she promised herself. One day, she would return to this place on Wang’s arm, walking on her own two feet. Not being pushed around in a wheelchair.
Her legs were already getting stronger, and she felt confident she would be able to walk again. Swallowing her disappointment, she turned towards Wang to let him know she understood if it was not possible to accommodate her, but at that moment, two younger men approached from the back of the shop and removed two stools from a nearby table, right by the window that overlooked the street, and Wang pushed her towards it.
“Thank you,” she told him softly. “For arranging this.”
“It was no trouble at all, my lady.”
The older man who had greeted them upon entering came back bearing a lacquered tray from which he took two bowls of steaming soup and placed them in front of them, along with a pot of what she assumed was tea and several small teacups.
“This smells delicious. What is it?”
“This is a type of noodle soup. It contains thinly sliced meats and vegetables in a broth base.”
“And what are these stringy things?”
“Those are the noodles.”
Esther peered at them with curiosity. A small porcelain spoon lay beside the soup bowl. She dipped it in, attempting to scoop up the elusive noodles, but they escaped. Instead, she lifted a spoonful of clear broth with just a few vegetables.
“How do you eat them?”
“With this,” Wang said, holding two wooden sticks in his hands. “They are called chopsticks.”
“You jest.”
He laughed softly and dipped the sticks into his bowl, using them like pincers to grab a knot of the noodles and bring them to his mouth.
“Hmm, the soup is very good. Brings me back to my youth. Try it.”
Esther picked up the sticks resting beside her bowl and tried to imitate the way Wang was holding them, but when she attempted to pick up the noodles, they slipped from her sticks.
“Let me help you.”
Wang reached over and took hold of her hand, repositioning the sticks and then molding his hand over hers to show her how she should move them to pick up the food.
It was stupid to be flustered by the brush of his hands upon hers. He had touched her much more intimately in the course of the therapies. But this innocent touch seemed much more personal. He was not touching her as a doctor; he was touching her as a man. Here in this small corner, there were only the two of them. With no other purpose than to share a meal and maybe something of themselves.
“Try it by yourself now.” Was it her imagination that his voice sounded lower?
She tried it again, with partial success. Some noodles fell, but she managed to bring a couple to her mouth, but then the slippery strings were falling off. Instinctively, she sucked themin, making a slurping sound. She brought her hand to her mouth, appalled by her lack of manners, but he simply laughed.
“I’m sorry. This is more difficult than I imagined,” she murmured, chagrined.
“Don’t be sorry, my lady. Slurping one’s soup is perfectly acceptable. Chinese culture considers it good manners, and a compliment to the chef.”
“Is that so?” She looked at him in disbelief.
To prove his point, he dipped his spoon in his soup, brought it to his mouth, and slurped its contents, smiling with satisfaction.
“Well, it is an excellent soup,” Esther conceded.
“Yes, it is.”
