Spicy
I had ordered my ramen only mildly spicy. And yet, the moment I chopsticked the tender noodles onto my tongue in a steaming mass that glowed neon orange with chili oil, I knew that she knew. My taste buds screamed the reality of the whole tawdry matter: my lover’s wife had become aware of the previous Sunday’s frankly disappointing goings-on in the greasy, cluttered kitchen at the rear of the shop, and now I was to choke on my sins.
As the fire coated my tonsils and oozed its slow march toward my esophagus, I briefly considered explaining to her that she had nothing to worry about, that her broth-scented spouse held no interest for me now that I understood his skills to be purely culinary in nature. Perhaps it was the atmosphere in which the deed was done, pressed against cardboard boxes bearing the logo of some forgettable brand of vegetable oil while exhaust fans sputtered overhead, but I harbored little optimism as to whether Mr. Hsieh’s performance would improve in a more traditional adulterous setting.
Wincing at her through wide, teary eyes, I was appalled but not particularly surprised to realize that Mrs. Hsieh was smirking.
“Is spicy enough?”
