Man vs. Durian

by Jackie Lau

  “Polly, is that you?”

  She screws up her face.

  “You sound like a parrot, that’s all.”

  “Thanks for that, genius.”

  “How many boyfriends have you had?”

  “One. He lasted...a long time. Way too long.” She picks up a forkful of beet salad but doesn’t put it in her mouth. “I met Stephen in university, and we lived together for a while. It did not end well. He cheated on me.” Her grip tightens on her fork.

  Instinctively, I reach across the table and cover her other hand with mine. I’m stroking her fingers before I realize what I’m doing.

  “Is this okay?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “I’ll only do it if you like it.”

  “I do,” she whispers, looking down. “It’s hard for me to let someone in, but it sounds like it’s easy for you. Thirteen relationships? I can’t imagine going through that thirteen times.”

  “Well, none of my relationships ended quite like that. And not all of them were serious.”

  “But the beginning, I mean. Just opening yourself up.”

  “I’ve always liked being in a relationship.”

  “I liked it, too. At least, I thought I did. Afterward, I wondered how much of it was real, and how deluded I was. Men suck.”

  I don’t argue.

  Now I get why Valerie said “no” when I asked her out, even though she seems to be attracted to me. She had a bad experience with her last boyfriend and has trouble trusting men. I don’t blame her.

  The server puts two plates in front of us. My pancake is crispy and golden brown. It’s folded in half and stuffed with stew, and it looks delicious.

  I let go of Valerie’s hand and use my knife to cut through the pancake. Steam rises. I pick up a bite with my fork and blow on it before popping it in my mouth.

  “This is really good,” I say.

  “Yeah, so is this.”

  “Want to try some?”

  When she nods eagerly, I chuckle and deposit a bite onto her plate.

  “It’s good,” she agrees, “but mine is even more scrumdiddlyumptious.”

  She lets me try some of hers, and oh, she might be right. That’s some quality bulgogi. But I don’t admit that I might like hers more than my own; I’m just happy she’s enjoying herself. And pleased with myself for picking this restaurant.

  After dinner, we amble down the street. I’m not ready for this date to end.

  “Let’s do something naughty,” I say with a mischievous smile.

  So many wonderful scenes float through my mind, all of them involving Valerie in various states of undress.

  But that’s not what I’m going to suggest.

  “Let’s eat ice cream at a place that isn’t Ginger Scoops,” I say. “There’s a Thai rolled ice cream place in Kensington Market.”

  We stroll west on Baldwin Street. It’s a nice night. Warmish, but with a cool breeze. I shove my hands in my pockets so I’m not tempted to hold her hand.

  Well, that’s not quite true. I’m still tempted, but at least now I’ve put a little distance between me and temptation.

  We soon reach the ice cream shop, which could best be described as Instagrammable. It’s a simple space with a light purple wall behind the area where the workers stir-fry ice cream. The counter looks like marble. At the front of the shop are a few tables and chairs of light-colored wood, and there are two square shelves at chest level for taking pretty pictures of your ice cream, as one woman is doing now.

  Valerie rolls her eyes.

  On the wall behind the cash register, there’s a list of six choices. Each one includes an ice cream flavor plus toppings.

  “What do you want?” she asks. “Probably best if we share. They look big.”

  Not gonna lie, I like the idea of sharing ice cream with her. Very date-like.

  “Why don’t you pick?” I say.

  “No, you’re the one who wanted to come here.”

  “Since I picked the ice cream spot, you should pick the ice cream.”

  “Fine,” she says.

  “You sound awfully pissy about getting what you want.”

  “It’s an impossible decision. I don’t want to make it.”

  “Which ones are you deciding between?”

  “All of them!”

  I chuckle.

  “What?” she demands.

  “You’re cute.”

  She gives me a glare that isn’t quite as icy as I suspect she thinks it is.

  “How about this?” I say. “I’ll pick two, and you can decide between them. That okay?”

  She agrees.

  It really is a tough decision, but I eventually pick Thai iced tea and chocolate-strawberry. The first has Thai tea-flavored ice cream rolls, which are garnished with whipped cream plus a small waffle cone and drizzled with condensed milk; the second contains strawberry ice cream rolls garnished with whipped cream, chocolate shavings, chocolate sauce, fresh strawberries, and chocolate Pocky.

  I’m kind of hoping she chooses the chocolate-strawberry, as I think it will make a more exciting Instagram picture, and yeah, I’m totally planning on putting this on Instagram. To needle her, if nothing else.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “They both sound good.”

  “Alright, let’s flip a coin.” I pull out a quarter. “Which one’s heads?”

  “Thai iced tea.”

  I throw the coin in the air, catch it, and slap it on the back of my hand.

  It’s heads.

  “Thai iced tea it is,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  “Is it just my imagination, or are you a little disappointed?”

  She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, and I refrain from telling her again that she’s cute. “Um... No. It’s good.”

  “I think you’re disappointed.”

  “Okay, fine. You win.” She throws up her hands. “The coin toss made me realize I’d prefer the chocolate-strawberry, but it seems so excessive. Chocolate shavings and chocolate sauce? It’s like when kids get sundaes at Ginger Scoops and decide they want literally everything on them. Also, strawberries and chocolate seem, well...romantic.”

  “Lucky for you, we’re on a date.”

  She narrows her eyes.

  “I hereby decree,” I say, “that strawberries and chocolate are an entirely unromantic combination, even if we’re sharing. Will you have it now?”

  “Too bad they don’t have a durian one. I’d definitely get that.”

  “I know. And I’d get my own chocolate-strawberry and eat it as far away from you as possible. But really, we should have the one you want the most, even if you think it’s excessive.”

  At last she nods her assent, and I go up to the counter and pay for our ice cream. Then we watch as a woman pours some white liquid onto a cold metal surface, covers it with a few squeezes of red sauce and “stir fries” it with a metal spatula. When it’s all frozen and spread out in a thin layer, she uses the spatula to roll it into six pink cylinders, each containing several thin layers of the frozen dessert. These are placed in a purple disposable cup with a white rose logo. Next, she adds the garnishes before placing the cup on the counter for us. I grab it before Valerie can and bring it to one of the shelves for a picture.

  “Are you serious?” Valerie asks. “You’re one of those people?”

  I don’t take pictures of my food all that often, but I do on occasion, and I’m definitely going to do it to annoy her now.

  I snap a few photos. “Hmm. I think I need to play with the settings.”

  “That’s enough!” Valerie grabs the ice cream off its perch and takes it to a table by the window. “It’s going to melt if you keep that up.”

  I chuckle as I sit down across from her, then help myself to one of the Pocky before trying the ice cream. I get a bite with a generous amount of chocolate sauce; Valerie’s first bite, in contrast, is about half ice cream and half whipped cream.

  “You glad we got th
e chocolate-strawberry?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says, as though it’s painful for her to admit. “I love chocolate.”

  “More or less than you love durian?”

  “Good question.” She has some more ice cream, and I watch as she slides the white plastic spoon into her mouth, jealous of it for getting to touch her lips and tongue.

  Yeah, that’s right, I’m jealous of a plastic spoon.

  This may be a new low, but I’m on a (fake) date with a pretty girl and we’ve eaten lots of delicious food. So my life really isn’t too bad.

  “I prefer durian,” she says.

  I gasp and put my hand to my mouth. “How dare you slander chocolate like that! What did chocolate ever do to you?”

  She shakes her head. “Sometimes you’re kind of annoying, you know.”

  “Who, me?”

  It’s so much fun to get under her nerves, and I want to kiss that scowl off her face. She’s forcing the scowl—I can see a smile trying to break through.

  I take my spoon and scoop up some ice cream, strawberry pieces, and chocolate shavings, and I bring it to her lips. “For you,” I whisper. “Indulge me.”

  She holds my gaze, her wide dark eyes focused on mine. She has such lovely eyes, framed by lovely eyelashes. And then she leans forward and slides the ice cream off the spoon with her lips, and I feel victorious.

  It’s a strange thing, feeding someone like this. We’re not touching, but it’s very intimate nonetheless. She’s still staring at my eyes, and after she swallows, she parts her lips, and I can see a shudder pass through her.

  “Too cold?” I murmur.

  “Yes. Too cold.”

  Liar. I don’t say that, though. I won’t win Valerie over by calling her out on her reaction to me. But we had a good time tonight, and I’m patient.

  We walk back to Yonge Street. I offer to drive her home, but she says she’ll take transit.

  “Text me when you get there,” I tell her outside College Park.

  She kisses me on the cheek.

  And then she’s gone, and my skin prickles where it touched her lips.

  Chapter 7

  Valerie

  A horrifying thing happens on Wednesday: I start humming to myself.

  Humming.

  I’m not joking.

  During my break in the afternoon, I head to Moonbeam Messages, the small greeting card and gift shop a few doors down from Happy As Pie. I casually peruse the rack of cards, picking up a few here and there. I skip over the birthday cards in favor of the small selection of romantic cards, the kind you’d get for your significant other just because.

  One card has two smiling cartoon limes and the line, “You’re My Main Squeeze.”

  Another has two cashews and says, “I’m Nuts for You.”

  It’s when I’m looking at a “Two Hearts Together Forever” card that I realize I’m humming “Something About the Way You Look Tonight.”

  Hmph.

  I immediately stop humming and continue with my important mission: find a card for Peter to give to me. I figure if my mom sees a card in my room, it’ll be good evidence of our relationship, and it gives me an excuse to go to this cutesy store that I’d never admit to liking.

  There’s a small selection of kirigami pop-up cards with no text inside, and I select one with a series of hearts in decreasing size. Better to get this than something mushy or lame, like “I’m nuts for you.”

  But to my dismay, I am a little nuts for him. There’s no denying that. We had a good time together on Sunday, and I feel like I can let down my guard with him.

  Yeah, Peter is an awesome boyfriend.

  Fake boyfriend.

  I have to keep reminding myself of that.

  After purchasing the card, I return to Ginger Scoops and serve ice cream. Chloe is in the back, making strawberry-lychee sorbet.

  A single man comes in, and I immediately freeze. He’s probably ten years older than me. White. Wedding ring, but as I’ve learned, that doesn’t matter.

  I usually try to smile at customers, something that doesn’t come naturally to me, but when it’s a single man or group of men, I don’t.

  Because sometimes men interpret a friendly customer service smile as me being interested in them. It’s only happened a few times, but those times stick out in my mind, and such men also suck at taking no for an answer.

  So I do my best to look unattractive and unfriendly.

  Men can accuse you of leading them on even if you do absolutely nothing to encourage it, as I’ve unfortunately learned.

  “Hello,” I say to the guy on the other side of the counter. “What can I get you today?”

  “I hear you make an excellent green tea ice cream.”

  “We do.”

  “Can I try a sample?”

  I hand him a plastic spoon with the requested ice cream.

  “Mm,” he says. “That’s good.” Then he looks at me in a way that makes my skin prickle unpleasantly.

  I’m unnerved. I want him to get out of here as fast as possible.

  “You know,” he says, “you would be very pretty if you smiled.”

  Dear God, he’s one of those men.

  “Come on, it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” I say tersely.

  He probably thinks I’m a frigid bitch, but I don’t give a shit. At least when I’m at Ginger Scoops, with its big windows at the front and Chloe in the back room, I do feel safe.

  Just very uncomfortable.

  It’s been drilled into me to not make a scene, plus I don’t want Chloe getting bad reviews on her business because of me. So, like the last time this happened, I refuse to smile, but I don’t lay into him like I want to. I don’t tell him that it’s fucking bullshit for men to expect women to smile, like we’re just there to amuse them and make their day pleasant.

  “Would you like a scoop of green tea ice cream in a cup?” I ask. “A cone? Is there anything else you want to try?”

  The asshole looks like he wants to make more annoying comments, but fortunately, the only words out of his mouth are, “A sugar cone.”

  I scoop out the ice cream for him, and once he heads out the door, I exhale.

  Because of #metoo, some men are complaining that every interaction with a woman freaks them out, and they’re afraid of being alone with a woman because she might accuse them of sexual assault.

  My God, I have no patience for those men.

  They complain that one false accusation might torpedo their career, when so many men are given the benefit of the doubt over and over again, whereas one true accusation of sexual harassment literally cost me my career, and now I’m just another STEM woman who no longer works in STEM.

  I exhale slowly.

  As if she has some kind of sixth sense, Chloe comes out of the back room.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  I just shake my head, but the great thing about knowing someone for many years is that you don’t always need words to communicate.

  Nobody else is in Ginger Scoops, and she wraps her arms around me. I rest my head on her shoulder for a moment, and I feel a little better.

  * * *

  After work, I meet up with Peter again. His idea this time.

  I feel like we’re taking this fake relationship more seriously than necessary, but it’s nice having something to do with my time, and I can tell my mother, without needing to lie, that I was with Peter.

  We meet at a nearby independent coffee shop. I order tea, and they give me a little teapot with loose tea leaves. I can’t believe the sight of the mini teapot excites me, but it does.

  I try not to show my excitement to Peter as I take my pot of jasmine tea over to the table. He, thankfully, doesn’t bother taking a picture for Instagram.

  We chat about the weather and other inane things, and then he says, “Do you like working in an ice cream shop?”

  “Not really.” I’m surprised by my honesty. It’s been a long, crap
py day, I guess. “But it is what it is. Chloe treats me well.”

  “What did you do before Ginger Scoops?”

  “I was a software developer. I have a degree in computer science.”

  “You didn’t want to do that anymore?”

  “I...” I shake my head. “Never mind.”

  “What?” He’s not being pushy. He’s kind.

  That kindness undoes me.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  All of a sudden, tears prick at the back of my eyes, and God, isn’t this just great. I’m going to cry at a coffee shop with my fake boyfriend.

  “I couldn’t do it anymore. I just couldn’t.” I swallow as a few tears slide down my cheeks. I still want to drink my tea, but I don’t want to sit here any longer. I get up, knocking the table in the process, and my mug almost topples to the ground, but Peter catches it.

  “You want to go?” He hands me a napkin.

  He’s so fucking nice and respectful. I’m not used to this. My family is just loud, and I feel like I’m always fighting back.

  “I can get to-go cups for us,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  Five minutes later, I’m walking down Dundas with my tea in my hand. It’s not unpleasant outside, but there’s a bit of a brisk wind. Peter puts his arm around me.

  “How about we go back to my place?” he suggests. “It’s not far from here. Nothing will happen, I promise. Just for half an hour, and then I can drive you home.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

  “I don’t have to be your fake boyfriend, but here we are.”

  I snicker at that. “Okay, sounds good.”

  His place is a one-bedroom in a glass building that’s maybe ten years old. It’s not immaculate, but it’s reasonably clean, decorated mostly in grays and blues. It’s a bit cluttered, but that’s understandable, as it’s pretty small as far as one-bedrooms go.

  And now I’m jealous.

  “I’ve never lived alone,” I tell him as he gestures for me to sit at the kitchen table.

  He pulls out a blue cookie tin, the kind that’s usually filled with sewing supplies in my family, but this one actually contains butter cookies. I reach for one.

  “It’s nice being away from people,” I say. “Ginger Scoops was busy all day, and now I finally feel like I can breathe. I liked sitting behind a computer in my cubicle all day. I miss that.”