“You didn’t analyze him?” Alisha asks. Her widened eyes are as round as full moons. “I don’t believe you.”
“I didn’t expect to be engaging in negotiations this morning,” I say. “It caught me off guard.”
“Okay, well, what were his traits? Could he be a candidate for one of our clients? Let’s debrief,” Alisha says, taking another bite of cake. “You said you made some kind of trade? Maybe he’s a lawyer.”
I cross my arms. “Let’s see. He’s overconfident and engages in social behaviors that are a little too forward for my taste. He told me he likes to go to Lucky Monkey for breakfast, but he works all the way downtown, which indicates that he puts his needs before his company’s. Yes, he was eventually charming and was surprisingly good-looking. He had stunning eyes. Hazel! Well-dressed. But he probably knows that, and in a relationship, he’d likely want to be told those things. I wouldn’t tell him what he needed to hear; we’d fight about it.”
Without stopping for a breath, I add, “I can see it now: A couple of months into the relationship he’d be frustrated that I prefer doing things the way I want to do them. I’d be annoyed that he can’t sit quietly with himself and that not everything can be a negotiation. That kind of dependency, paired with my need for alone time, would never work.”
Alisha and Randall look stunned for a moment. Then they finally break the silence by clapping against their plates. “You continue to impress us. But who said anything about a relationship?” Alisha says, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Oh, I didn’t mean relationship. They’re just always on my mind for our clients,” I hurriedly reply, fumbling over my words. “You know how I feel about being matched.”
She sighs. “Right, of course. You’re the matchmaker who can’t be matched.”
I shrug. I know how people will act—and how things will turn out—because I know their traits on a deep level. I’ve accepted my fate. For everyone else though, there’s hope.
“By the way, we were debriefing about him. You brought yourself into this,” Randall adds with a gooey smile.
“I was just trying to put it into context. Enough about him,” I add defensively.
Alisha wags her finger in thought. “You’re right. Enough about him, more about you. Monday is coming up, and we need to get you out there more. Podcasts, listicles, interviews with young professionals–type stuff. You’re the new face of Lunar Love. Let’s show the world that. Maybe the media, and a younger clientele, will find it interesting that the new owner of LA’s original zodiac matchmaking company is a gorgeous young woman.”
“That’s exactly what we should do. Try to reach a younger market,” I agree.
“I have a contact at WhizDash. They’ve become really popular. I’ll let her know that we want to get something up on the website,” Alisha says. She crams the rest of her cake slice into her mouth, licking the crumbs off her lips along with some of her berry-colored lipstick. “If you want to write something, I can send it to her.”
“I’ll start thinking of article ideas,” I tell her, ideas immediately flooding my mind.
“Perfect. I—ooh! Randall, there’s Aunt Vivienne!” Alisha says, becoming distracted by my aunt across the yard. “She has that list of art documentaries for us to watch. Liv, we’ll catch you in a bit!” The two of them shuffle through the grass, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
My sister, Nina, catches my attention from the outdoor dining table, and I rush over to her. Her arms are filled with bowls and plates stacked on a large platter where, just an hour ago, eight Peking ducks sat among steamed buns, cucumbers, green onions, and hoisin sauce. My mouth waters at the memory of all the flavors melting together. I can tell she’s stressed by the thin layer of sweat forming on her upper lip.
“Do you need help?” I ask, extending my arms to assist.
“So. Many. Dishes,” Nina huffs, keeping the pile to herself. “Mom wants them cleaned before the big announcement.” She lifts her elbows as high as she can as I fan her with my hands to cool her down. “It’s October! I’ll never get used to the fact that it’s still eighty degrees in autumn.”
“It’s only going to keep getting hotter every year,” I mumble bleakly.
Nina sticks her tongue out and adds, “I can’t wait for my Cookie Day when I won’t have to do any of this. Enjoy the view. You’re looking at your future.”
“I’m going to be a sweaty bride-to-be with hoisin sauce on my shirt?” I ask. We both start cracking up.
“I need to get back there before I make a scene. Save me a piece of cake. And if you see my future husband, tell him to refill the jasmine tea.” She slowly walks toward the kitchen, carefully balancing the remains of this afternoon’s meal.
I grab a slice of cake for Nina and retrace her steps to the kitchen. I swing the kitchen door open to find my dad leaning over the sink with his head turned toward a small television under the cabinets featuring reruns of Seinfeld. The stack of dishes Nina brought in looks untouched. My footsteps startle Dad, and he jolts, his hands quickly resuming position with the scrubber. He lifts a plate out of the bubbly water and starts moving the brush counterclockwise in efficient strokes.
“Are there any leftovers?” I ask, hopeful for a honey-glazed prawn.
“Oh, hi, sweetie. I thought you were your mother.” His eyes shift back to the screen, and he absentmindedly drops the plate into the sink. “I think there’s a bit of broccoli left. And birthday noodles. Or maybe I already ate those.”
“Why do I hear so much chatter when I should hear more scrubbing?” Mom asks as she sets empty cups and wine bottles onto the kitchen island. Her eyes shift over to the pile of dirty dishes. Dad picks the plate out of the water as quickly as he dropped it, his eyes now glued to the dish. Though only five foot three compared to Dad’s six-foot-three frame, Mom’s the one who commands the room.
Dad hangs his head, a strand of sandy brown hair flopping over his face, and speaks in the voice of an omniscient narrator. “At that moment, Marty looked at those dishes, not as a pile of porcelain and stainless steel, but as a direct representation of the failure that is his life.” He lifts a dirty soup bowl from the dish mound.
Mom and I look at each other and shake our heads. Dad finds joy in making people laugh by occasionally speaking as though he’s writing a script. For him, it comes with the territory of being a screenwriter.
“The dessert portion of the afternoon seems to be a hit,” Mom says to me. “Has Sān Pó Po come by for a slice yet?”
“I saw her sneaking around the dessert table with pruning shears.”