Chinatown.
My hood protects me from the frozen sprinkles of rain.
I walk by four Vietnamese restaurants in a row, trying to choose one for dinner.
A white man - also shielded by a hood - hurriedly walks into the one to my left, but not before we catch eyes.
Instinct tells me to follow him.
I find him holding the door.
"Is this place any good?" I ask.
"The best."
We put our hoods down - I notice hia hair is wild like mine - and again catch eyes.
The host speaks to us in Vietnamese.
I look confused.
"You don't speak Vietnamese?" the white man asks.
"Unfortunately, no."
"Two?" the host tries again.
I shake my head and hold one finger up, then smile and look back at him avoiding eyes.
"Unless you want to join me," I say, prepared for embarassment.
"I'm picking up," he says.
I'm relieved, but disappointed.
"Just one," I tell the host.
I sit facing the door and absent-mindedly flip through the menu.
"While I wait, I can help pick you pick something out.
I only know street food. What do you want?" he asks.
"Street food."
He orders for me in Vietnamese.
I don't know what he ordered.
Before he leaves, he asks for my email.
I say he won't remember but tell him anyway.
With nothing written down, he leaves with his order.
My food arrives and my phone buzzes.
Disturbingly tempting
I must say
Caught me wrong footed.
