We were walking back from lunch. He noticed some greenbacks on the ground and asked, "whose money?" He said to the man close by, "Is this your money"? The man looked down, paused a second, and picked them up. As they were going innocently from his fingers to his pocket, I noticed they were two fives and two ones and suddenly realized: they were my money! I just got them from the food cart vendor. They just slipped out of my pocket.
Well, they are no longer mine. If I told the man they were mine and demanded them back, it would be like slapping him in the face. How could I allow anybody lose face like that?
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Monday, April 2, 2007
Saturday Afternoon
As I was standing by the window peeling an after-lunch apple, my neighbor called, telling me her cats were out. I put down the phone and went out. This was no time to procrastinate. A second late, they would be gone.
The cats were mother and son. The mother was once a wanderer, a cat-shaped piece of darkness except for a pair of gleaming eyes, perfect outfit for a wandering life, especially at night. She was extremely sensitive and scared of any sudden sound and movement. I did not get to see her at all last time I visited. Now she was at her coresident's feet, enjoying her favorite red comb gliding through her short hair. But she soon caught my eyes, mistook my admiration for a hunter's hungry gaze and disappeared behind the curtain.
The son was all black except for a white triangle around the nose, a white bow-tie at the neck, a white strip down the belly and four snow white paws. No doubt he was less traumatized. He stuck out his head out of the railing and studied me, brushed his shoulder against my neighbor's feet, stretched against the fake pine wall, sharpened his claws and attempted to reach for the bird feeder hanging on the eaves, all the time while my neighbor and I exchanged smiles and comments about him, she on her second floor balcony, me on the grassy slope under an empty cherry tree, soaking up the sun.
The cats were mother and son. The mother was once a wanderer, a cat-shaped piece of darkness except for a pair of gleaming eyes, perfect outfit for a wandering life, especially at night. She was extremely sensitive and scared of any sudden sound and movement. I did not get to see her at all last time I visited. Now she was at her coresident's feet, enjoying her favorite red comb gliding through her short hair. But she soon caught my eyes, mistook my admiration for a hunter's hungry gaze and disappeared behind the curtain.
The son was all black except for a white triangle around the nose, a white bow-tie at the neck, a white strip down the belly and four snow white paws. No doubt he was less traumatized. He stuck out his head out of the railing and studied me, brushed his shoulder against my neighbor's feet, stretched against the fake pine wall, sharpened his claws and attempted to reach for the bird feeder hanging on the eaves, all the time while my neighbor and I exchanged smiles and comments about him, she on her second floor balcony, me on the grassy slope under an empty cherry tree, soaking up the sun.
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