Tie-Dye Guy steps under our tent and bends down just as I do, our foreheads knocking against each other. We both grunt.
He kneels beside me and sets his cat down next to him.
“It’s fine. I got this,” I say, shooing him away.
The man lifts my now-empty folder. Beside it are my divorce papers, the ink practically still wet. Well, now it’s literally wet. And smudged. Which doesn’t matter, really, now that it’s all over and done with. Even with it being a straightforward, no-fault divorce, it still cost hundreds of dollars. It was my most expensive mistake to date.
“Uh, here,” the man says, stuffing the papers back into the folder and handing it to me. There’s a micro lift in his eyebrows, telling me all I need to know. “Please, let me help.”
I let out a pathetic laugh. “Nothing aboutthis”—I gesture to myself while holding a piece of turnip cake—“can be helped.”
He lifts one of the fallen-apart dumplings, the shrimp dangling precariously. “I don’t think it’s our fault. They don’t make dim sum like they used to.” As he says this, the shrimp gives up and falls.
The cat comes up and licks it. At least one of us gets to enjoy it.
All of this makes me laugh because it’s exactly how I feel. Like shrimp that’s fallen on the dirty ground, and there’s nothing to be done about it.
My reaction surprises us both. Tie-Dye Guy joins in, and for a second, it’s nice to be laughing with someone, our sounds blending into one. His laugh feels like being covered in a dry, warm towel after coming in from the rain. It seemed impossible, but I think a fraction of my stress melts away.
Our eyes lock as I’m catching my breath. Up close, he’s even more beautiful than any person has a right to be. It’s a weird thought to be having while sitting on the street in the middle of Chinatown.
Then I remember the fortune teller. The reading.
Any gains from our nice moment disappear when Tie-Dye Guy’s smile falls, and he says, “You’re bleeding.”
I press the back of my hand to my forehead, the turnip cake wobbling between my fingers.
“No, your arm,” he says.
Spanning the underside of my right forearm are long scratches. As soon as I notice it, the area begins to sting.
“Perfect,” I mumble, tossing the food back into its container.
“We need to get you cleaned up,” Tie-Dye Guy says, helping me up.
“Wedon’t need to do anything.”
He holds his arm out. “At least wipe your hands on my shirt. I have to wash it anyway.”
I eye him. “Your shirt’s bad enough. I don’t want to make it worse.”
Tie-Dye Guy laughs. “Wow. Haven’t heard that one before.” He straightens his arm. “Come on.”
It’s tempting. I hate the feeling of having dirty hands. But also, he’s a stranger. “Absolutely not.”
“Really, it’s fine,” he insists. “Of all my bad shirts, this one’s my least favorite.”
I don’t want sticky fingers or for my clothes to smell like dim sum. Especially when there’s no water for laundry.
I give in and use his arm sleeve as my napkin. “Thanks.”
It’s not like I’m embarrassed about taking him up on his offer. I just can’t look at him directly as I do it. The fact that his gesture seems chivalrous says a lot about my day.
My attention drifts back to Wendy, who’s been busy tending to her birds. I look down at the table. It takes me a second to process what’s happened.
Once I do, I feel my heart drop to my stomach. My hands fall from Tie-Dye Guy’s sleeve, grazing his knuckles on the way down. I inhale sharply, choosing to believe that this sudden intake of air is a reactionnotto the short-lived skin-on-skin contact, but because of what I’m witnessing.
I was wrong about my worst-case scenario.
