I bristle at that thought.He did X, so I did X.I can practically hear my grandmother asking about bridges and jumping off.
What if I love spicy food? Or find Moroccan to be amazing? What if falafel becomes my new favorite meal or I discover I could happily eat hummus on everything?
A risky thought hits me, totally in line with this rush of “newness” I’m feeling. I spread out all of the menus on the counter, close my eyes, and mix them up like a pile shuffle before a game of Go Fish.
Keeping my eyes closed, I fumble around until I land on one, pull it out of the pile, and open my eyes.
MingHin Cuisine.
On it, there’s a sticky note on which Lorraine has written:Authentic and delicious!She’s circled the Dim sum in permanent marker.
MingHin Cuisine and Dim sum it is.
I tap the Grubhub icon on my phone and order three times as much food as I’ll be able to eat. Chaozhou dumplings with pork. Mongolian beef. Chiu Chow marinated duck. Mixed vegetable lo mein. Pan-fried taro cake.
Probably enough to feed the whole building. Frivolous? Maybe. But I’ve never heard of any of these and I’m conquering fears here.
And maybe once I trust myself with these silly little decisions, I’ll trust myself with big decisions too.
I add instructions for the driver to leave my food at the door, pour myself a glass of wine, and walk upstairs. There, in anopened box that is still half unpacked, are products I purchased at the spa the last time I went. They’re probably all expired, but they were too overwhelming to use and too expensive to throw away, so they got a first-class ticket to Chicago in the back seat of my Jeep.
I pull the packing tape off a smaller box and find bath salts and lotions, a moisturizing mud mask and a deep-conditioning hair treatment.
“Jackpot.”
Less than an hour later, I’m standing in my short pink robe, a coating of deep conditioner in my hair, and a thick, green mud mask hardening on my face when my phone dings.
Your food has been delivered.
On cue, my stomach growls, and I’m inexplicably excited about the smorgasbord of new dishes to try.
I creep down the stairs and peek outside, and when I’m sure the courtyard is clear, I open the door a crack.
I kneel down and start feeling around, like I’m blindly searching for a contact lens in the dark, but the only thing there is my welcome mat. I open the door a little wider and poke my head out, looking for the bag of food, but there’s nothing here.
I stand, tighten the belt of my robe, and step outside. I do a quick search of the area and see three large white bags by the entrance to the courtyard.
I groan. They brought the food as far as the building but decided it wasn’t necessary to actually set it in front of my door. Perfect.
I look around. I’m not going to go back inside and get dressed when I still have to shower and wash the conditioner out of my hair, so I opt for the quick dash to the front gate instead.
I pull the door to my apartment closed and run toward the front gate. I pick up all three bags, then turn and rush back, doingmy best to keep the belt of my robe secure while carrying enough food to feed the entire offensive line of the Chicago Bears.
I make it to my apartment, but when I twist the doorknob, it doesn’t turn.
I crank it again. Nothing.
The door is locked.
Stupidly, I try it a third time, as if I somehow operated the doorknob wrong the first two times.
Not surprisingly, it’s still locked.
One of the bags slips, and as I go to catch it, my hand catches on the belt of my robe, loosening it just enough to take the whole scene into rated R territory.
At that exact moment, I hear the sound of a door opening across the courtyard.
Becauseofcoursenow is precisely when my womanizing neighbor has decided to say good night to his second (third? fifth?) date of the day.
