I’m still pondering this when the hi-low bell chimes that our wheels are being lowered for landing. It’s funny that I find myself looking up at the indicator lights whenever I hear a chime, even when I’m not working. The job is becoming innate.
We touch down gently, like a ladybug on a blade of grass. I lean toward my seatmate and say, “Smooth landing,” in case her husband plays the landing game Vincent and Nathan play. He deserves a point if he was the one flying.
She nods toward the flight deck door. “You can tell my hubby when you exit. He’ll appreciate it coming from one of our own.”
One of our own.It’s nice to be included. As if we’re a big family.
Only our family isn’t as big as I’d thought it was. Because after we taxi to the gate and the seat-belt sign is turned off, her husband steps into the front galley to say goodbye to passengers, and it turns out I’ve already met him.
He’s Angel’s new boyfriend.
Even though my stomach feels sick at the revelation that Angel’s boyfriend is married, I’m still in the mood for ramen, since my crash pad has smelled like noodles for days. So I get behind the wheel of my sky-blue MINI Cooper and head to a Japanese restaurant near Wyatt’s office.
It’s nice to drive again. If I don’t get transferred to San Francisco next month, I should consider driving up the coast to have my car in Seattle with me. It would make exploring the area a lot easier, not to mention hauling groceries.
Before long I find myself stuck in a traffic jam, and I’m rethinking my desire to drive all the way up the coast. The train is close by my crash pad, and the grocery store delivers. Plus, it’s nice not to have to worry about parking.
I finally make it to Tasty Tokyo and am delighted by the life-size manga sketches on the walls as well as the chefs in white hats chopping and rolling sushi on a bamboo bar. The scents of sizzling pork, sautéed veggies, and boiling noodles make my stomach rumble. I peruse the menu and am just opening my mouth to order when I spot an ad at the bottom.
They offer a class where you can make your own ramen. The perfect date night. I sign us up and then take sushi to Wyatt. He’s busy of course, so I leave him lunch, glad that I planned something special for our evening. It also gives me a chance to catch up on my sleep, and I’m feeling revitalized on my return to the restaurant.
I’ve already put on my apron with the kanji script and wrapped my head in a white bandanna by the time Wyatt rushes through the door. “Nice of you to make it,” I tease. “I know you flew in from another state to be here tonight. Oh wait. That’s me.”
He gives me a peck on the cheek and joins my table of four. “You’re the one who had the day off. I was working to make the big bucks to spoil you properly after being apart for so long.”
I giggle. It’s good to have a day off when I’m not sick, and it’s good to be part of a couple again. I slide him his package of chopsticks. The wrapper is printed with a form on which we pick our spice level, salt level, and whether or not we want a soft-boiled egg.
The instructor brings around pot stickers and flights of tea for us to munch and sip while filling out our checklists. The slick, meaty appetizers tempt me to keep eating, but I force myself to save room for the main course. Thankfully, it’s not long before we’re given bowls of flour and alkaline water to blend with our chopsticks, then smash together with our hands.
Taking turns, we run our mounds through a KitchenAid-style mixer with an attachment that flattens the dough. Fold, press, repeat. Each mound starts to resemble pie crusts, but longer and more solid. After so many runs through the machine, we adjust our settings to press the dough thinner and thinner, then the attachment is changed to one that slices the dough into noodles. Finally we bunch our noodles together tofit inside little metal baskets with long handles. They’re dipped into boiling water, where we stir our noodles constantly for fifteen seconds with chopsticks.
Wyatt cooks our pork belly with what resembles a blowtorch while I fill our bowls with scoops of broth, spice, and soy. I laugh and smile with Wyatt, but we don’t get much time to talk as our instructor shares fun facts about the origin of ramen.
Sparrow would love this part of the class. Thinking about Sparrow reminds me of Angel, and my stomach sinks again, like a piece of dough that’s risen and been punched down.
I bite my lip and garnish the soup with mushrooms, bamboo, and green onions. Though it looks a bit gross, I scoop some noodles with my chopsticks and slurp them into my mouth. Flavor explodes on my tongue.
“You’re slurping,” Wyatt whispers.
I’m sure he’s trying to help, but he must not know the benefits of slurping. He’s not even using chopsticks. “Okay, Forky McForkerson.”
He narrows his icy eyes in mock annoyance. “You just want to see me make a mess.”
“Kind of.”
Keeping eye contact, he stabs his noodles and twists until they wrap around the tines of his fork.
By this time I’ve already scooped and slurped another mouthful. Winner-winner, ramen dinner. Eating this way is a perk of not dancing professionally anymore, though it can’t be good for my waistline. “After this carbo-loading, I should go on a run tomorrow.”
Wyatt finally lifts his forkful of noodles to his mouth, but they don’t all make it inside. He has to slurp anyway. “I thought you were spending tomorrow with me.”
“Let’s go running together. It’ll be good training for your pickup basketball games.”
He returns to twisting his fork in his bowl. “If you’re going to run, I’ll just go play basketball.”
I relent. I’m here for him. I can run when I return to Seattle.
Thinking of Seattle sends a pang through my belly. A wince slips out.
