Goodbye Honey (A Short Story)

I used my tongue to examine the texture of my teeth while my co-worker drew directions on a napkin. He unbuckled and thanked me for the ride, and I said I was glad I could help. His pregnant wife was standing in the driveway shoeless. I reversed the car and they waved goodbye, shining in the white space stretching from my Volkswagen Golf. I left the napkin on his seat and guided the wheel in no particular direction. Rarely straying from my routine, I decided to make this trip a true detour. Traffic had settled. I was buzzing down a fluorescent Boulevard feeling the lightness of a place I’d never been when a glass storefront caught my eye. Something unknown had attracted me, and I found myself pulling over to park. The cement glittered as I walked back to the restaurant. I watched a long curious woman moving towards me. As we passed each other it felt okay to be lost, stopping to roam an unfamiliar area.
Scenes of Thai villagers living and working hung on the walls. Some ambient music came from a stereo at the bar. I sat down, rolled up my cuffs, and looked out the window façade beside me. The air smelled of sesame, spices and sweet coconut. It was empty except for the incredibly long Asian girl coughing and shuffling towards me. I really had to look up; she was taller than a coat rack. She sneezed and peeked two teary eyes over her notepad. She smiled like a bowling ball splitting an arrangement of pins.
“What’ll it be there fella?”
I had never heard a southern drawl sung by an Asian girl taller than a baby tree. A small orange flower fell from her hair when she coughed. Something about her particular combination of elements touched and twisted me. She was one of a sweet kind. One strange treasure hidden in an unremarkable Thai restaurant at dinnertime. Unknown and untapped otherwise and entirely mine—in a way. I breezed through the menu that her lacquered peach nails pressed into the table. I ordered Pad Thai and the Chrysanthemum tea she’d recommended, saying it was, “Real sweet an’ nice.”
A new sequence of dominos had appeared in my life, all resembling a sugary stele appropriately named Honey. It inspired in me a new generosity. But she didn’t tear a hole in my pocket by going the extra mile. Truth is, there was very little for her to do, except smile. After that, I was bought and sold. Honey’s smile was like a three-inch vacation or a window into the eternal respite. And she kept it up. She shoved the bills into her apron and walked off, but I caught her sweet shameless reflection in the dead TV mounted on the wall. I didn’t tip Honey for her work. I paid her for being special.
The next night, en route from the office, I blew through eleven yellow lights. This time I started at the top of the menu and ordered from the Curries. Honey returned to the safety of the counter and started scribbling. She was either doodling or doing a crossword. She struck me as both types; it was hard to get a read on her. My nostrils tingled and flared over a bowl of red curry powder, hot coconut milk, and vegetables. I came back the next night and every night that followed—including weekends. After a month I’d eaten the entire menu, start to finish. Heading home one evening it occurred to me that my return might appear as strange. My frequenting The Thai Palace had nothing to do with establishing a new routine or making a new friend or eating the food. But Honey never quivered. She would bare her green light smile and I’d exhale any fear of feeling like a stalker. In any case, no use for her wasting time considering the circumstances. She probably just categorized me as some kind adventurous eater who’d had the unfortunate experience of discovering Thai food in his late twenties.
I returned to The Thai Palace always around the same time. Each night Honey approached my table carrying a pot of hot Chrysanthemum tea. We exchanged pleasant hellos and she offered me no more than her description of the specials. I acknowledged Honey’s wishing-you-a-Happy-Birthday smile with my best impression of her visage. While I was eating she scribbled in her notebook, disappeared, or arranged bottles of tea inside a cooler. I didn’t print my number over Lincoln’s reposed gaze. She didn’t know my name, but I admired what I believed about her. That at her age she’d already learned what it took me several versions of heartbreak to understand. There is majesty in the unknown. Truth has no real words.
Monday morning I received an email from my superior. The attachment read “Edison, Parker Mr., E-ticket USAir Flight 1593.” My company sends me to San Francisco several times a year to confer with other human relations executives. It’s a trip I wouldn’t take otherwise. I departed the next morning. An easy flight, perfect Northern California weather, and the front desk welcomed me with a gentle, un-LA demeanor. I placed my brown Kenneth Coles beside my suitcase, uncurled on the couch, pressed a button on the remote, and the shades drew themselves.
The four-day conference was an intensive blur, and it wasn’t until Saturday morning that I thought of Honey. I skipped breakfast and walked until I found myself alongside the cable car route. The line ended before I’d reached one cherished west coast historical site, Ghirardelli’s Chocolate Factory. The wind tossed cool salty air around me as I devoured The Alcatraz Rock, Ghirardelli’s best sundae. I stared at the old prison across the Bay. A family appeared; two children went screaming down the hill past their parents. Then I thought of Honey. I focused on her and the few details I had collected. They were nice details, dependable, simple, consistent, and distant. They had nothing to do with me really, and that’s what made them so perfect. That with Honey I had no affect, no say, and nothing to offer but an extra twenty percent. And all those few dollars said were, “Keep doing what you’re doing. I think it’s pretty OK.”
When I returned there were bills, groceries, and laundry to catch up with. One night I opened the refrigerator to grab an apple and I remembered Honey. I had let it become two weeks. I rushed out of the apartment and started the car, wondering if I’d locked the front door. Up to that point, I hadn’t considered Honey romantically, but that whole ride I just played with her in my mind. I dressed her in white lingerie that slipped over her pert breasts, then in a black suit with no shirt on underneath, like a model. I didn’t want to kiss her. I just didn’t know what she looked like when she wasn’t wearing grey pants and a white shirt with a green square in the center.
Honey was off, but I stayed for the meal. I felt something—maybe sadness—when I peeled open my chopsticks and I couldn’t sense her hanging out across the room. A teenage punk rock version of the owner set a plate of the house Pad Thai in front of me. He bowed, stepped outside, lit a cigarette, and watched the traffic. I looked back. His father, a Thai immigrant in his sixties, was standing behind the counter with his arms crossed. I could tell that he was staring at his son, even without being able to see his eyes.
Then, a very strange feeling unearthed in my chest, like a seed sprouting its first green. Something simultaneously nostalgic and new. Then I placed it; it felt like prayer. I hadn’t prayed over a meal since Christmas dinner at my parents’ in Milwaukee. Though, that was more like happy collective mumbling. I squeezed my hands together under the table and stretched my head forward as far down as it could go. It just happened. My heart bloated, and then it tore. It felt like a parachute opening. I laughed to myself, marveling at the power of curry. I felt like a rookie boxer, but on the inside of the punching bag. Something in me wanted out—fast—but I had no words. I rode it out until my blood was redistributed evenly. When I started to eat my dinner it was still warm, just not steaming.
I opened the door and took in a bowl of stale city air. I looked up at the murky sky, all those stars obscured by electric lights. I drove under the speed limit with the windows down and listened to the traffic. When I got home I turned to the passenger seat and imagined Honey sitting there beside me. I would give her hand a squeeze, get out, go around the car, and open her door. I tried to picture her smiling, but it wasn’t the same really—I could remember that much. I unbuckled, reclined the seat, and shut my eyes. I woke up to an ache in my neck and my watch read 2:48AM. I remembered very little about Honey, but I knew she was gone.