back of Mei-li’s head, her short green and black hair, I tried to think for the first time about the girl’s side of things when it came to Diego. But it made me feel pretty bad about shit, and I don’t like feeling bad when it comes to anything Diego-related, so I put the whole thing out of my head.
Mei-li looked at Mong—who was still staring straight ahead in his trance—and then at me in the rearview. “Hey, Miguel, since we’re in all this traffic—I mean, we’re not getting anywhere anytime soon, I don’t know—how ’bout if I tell you my all-time favorite story about true love. From all the way back in China. Maybe you could even write this story someday.” She turned around and looked at me.
“That’s cool,” I said, and I got my pen ready, all happy she was gonna tell me more.
“Cool,” she said, excited. “I’ll talk slow so you can write it all down. By the way, I don’t know how this drive became ‘sponsored by love’ or whatever. I know guys don’t really like talking about this stuff as much, right?”
I shrugged. “I don’t care that much.”
She smiled, said: “Writers are different, I think. You guys are so much more sensitive.”
I shrugged again and looked down at my journal. But inside it felt kind of nice what she said about me.
Mei-li turned back around and rolled up her window, then she turned off the music completely.
Mei-li’s Story About True Love:
“Once upon a time,” she started, “years after things started changing in China, there was a beautiful and talented young singer in Shanghai. She was half Chinese, half Vietnamese. As a child this girl won lots of little competitions all around the city. Almost every one she entered. And as she got into her teens, she only got better. Everyone who knew her, especially her own family, believed she was destined to lead a special life.”
Mong turned to his cousin and glared at her.
Mei-li shrugged and said: “Come on, Mong, it’s such a beautiful story.”
Mong shook his head and stared straight ahead again.
She slipped another cigarette from her pack, lit it with the car lighter, pulled a drag and let her smoke out slow. “Anyway,” she continued, glancing at Mong and then turning back to the freeway. “Only a few miles away a handsome young man had just returned home to China from America, where he’d attended law school. His ambition was to find a beautiful and intelligent wife and start a family of his own. The man was the only son of one of the most respected families in all of China. But he was shy. Much too shy to meet women on his own. He could only do it through a matchmaker. So his mother called upon the most popular one in the city. The problem was the young man was even more picky than he was shy. He rejected the first twenty-three women the matchmaker brought for him to meet—meaning he rejected their families, too. Remember, this is China we’re talking about. He declared he would rather be alone forever than marry someone he didn’t love body and soul. Just as he was about to give up hope, the matchmaker and his mother talked him into meeting one last girl. A beautiful young singer.
“The young man met the girl in a crowded noodle shop in the middle of Shanghai and fell instantly in love. There was only one problem: the girl was still young, eighteen, and much more self-centered than most Chinese girls. Her promising singing career was all that interested her. After arguing with her mother and father for two straight days, she rejected the young man’s proposal. He and his family were outraged, but did he let this rejection discourage him? Not for a second, Miguel. He knew the girl was the only one he could love. Ignoring the pleas of the matchmaker and his mother to continue meeting other women, he wrote the girl letters. Every single day, without fail, for over two years.”
Me and Mei-li locked eyes in the rearview as she stubbedout her cigarette on the top of a Starbucks cup,
Mei-li looked at Mong—who was still staring straight ahead in his trance—and then at me in the rearview. “Hey, Miguel, since we’re in all this traffic—I mean, we’re not getting anywhere anytime soon, I don’t know—how ’bout if I tell you my all-time favorite story about true love. From all the way back in China. Maybe you could even write this story someday.” She turned around and looked at me.
“That’s cool,” I said, and I got my pen ready, all happy she was gonna tell me more.
“Cool,” she said, excited. “I’ll talk slow so you can write it all down. By the way, I don’t know how this drive became ‘sponsored by love’ or whatever. I know guys don’t really like talking about this stuff as much, right?”
I shrugged. “I don’t care that much.”
She smiled, said: “Writers are different, I think. You guys are so much more sensitive.”
I shrugged again and looked down at my journal. But inside it felt kind of nice what she said about me.
Mei-li turned back around and rolled up her window, then she turned off the music completely.
Mei-li’s Story About True Love:
“Once upon a time,” she started, “years after things started changing in China, there was a beautiful and talented young singer in Shanghai. She was half Chinese, half Vietnamese. As a child this girl won lots of little competitions all around the city. Almost every one she entered. And as she got into her teens, she only got better. Everyone who knew her, especially her own family, believed she was destined to lead a special life.”
Mong turned to his cousin and glared at her.
Mei-li shrugged and said: “Come on, Mong, it’s such a beautiful story.”
Mong shook his head and stared straight ahead again.
She slipped another cigarette from her pack, lit it with the car lighter, pulled a drag and let her smoke out slow. “Anyway,” she continued, glancing at Mong and then turning back to the freeway. “Only a few miles away a handsome young man had just returned home to China from America, where he’d attended law school. His ambition was to find a beautiful and intelligent wife and start a family of his own. The man was the only son of one of the most respected families in all of China. But he was shy. Much too shy to meet women on his own. He could only do it through a matchmaker. So his mother called upon the most popular one in the city. The problem was the young man was even more picky than he was shy. He rejected the first twenty-three women the matchmaker brought for him to meet—meaning he rejected their families, too. Remember, this is China we’re talking about. He declared he would rather be alone forever than marry someone he didn’t love body and soul. Just as he was about to give up hope, the matchmaker and his mother talked him into meeting one last girl. A beautiful young singer.
“The young man met the girl in a crowded noodle shop in the middle of Shanghai and fell instantly in love. There was only one problem: the girl was still young, eighteen, and much more self-centered than most Chinese girls. Her promising singing career was all that interested her. After arguing with her mother and father for two straight days, she rejected the young man’s proposal. He and his family were outraged, but did he let this rejection discourage him? Not for a second, Miguel. He knew the girl was the only one he could love. Ignoring the pleas of the matchmaker and his mother to continue meeting other women, he wrote the girl letters. Every single day, without fail, for over two years.”
Me and Mei-li locked eyes in the rearview as she stubbedout her cigarette on the top of a Starbucks cup,
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