untouched

On nights that I didn't want to see my uncle after work, I would walk to a small stand near my office. The middle-aged Korean man who worked the night shift there never seemed to age a single day nor learn a single word of English; he had been there for as long as anyone could remember and probably owned the stand himself. The seats were wooden stools pulled up to a bar that extended from his stand. I'd order the only thing on the menu -- a large bowl of noodles in broth -- and take out a book from the library or the used-book store across the street. When I finished, I'd exchange a nod with the owner and leave five or six dollars on the table.

I met Danielle for the first time on one of these nights. It was a pretty cold night for October, and the stand offered little enough shelter from the wind. I ducked under the tin roof and took a seat at the counter, noticed the tall brunette warming her hands over her bowl. Another bowl cooled on the counter next to her. She seemed reluctant to eat. I paged through my book without much interest. When I eventually fished out the last of my noodles and got up to leave, she was still picking disconsolately at her bowl, alone.