We held tickets for a performance at 7pm Wednesday. By 6pm, the table had everything we needed for dinner — fried tofu, spring rolls, stir-fried vegetables. Everything, that is, except for my Chinese husband.
Where is he? I wondered, pacing as I peered out the window, scouring the landscape for any sign of him as the notice on those tickets flashed over and over again in my mind: attendees must be in their seats by 6:45pm, or the unfilled seats will be filled with people in the waiting area.
Suddenly, I spotted someone walking down the street in a rather familiar maroon down jacket, with an even more familiar gait. John. He strolled along with one of his soccer buddies, chatting with all of the leisure of a Sunday afternoon tea time — and not the Wednesday “we have to eat and get the performance ASAP” anxiety coursing through my veins.
Since he stood within shouting distance of our place, I did what any worried wife would do. “Sweetie, it’s dinnertime! Come on!”
When he finally trotted in the door, I gave him the chopsticks and a stern glance. “Where have you been? Did you completely forget about the performance this evening?”
“I was delayed at work. But I figured that 45 minutes is more than enough time for us to head over there.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You really like to live on the edge, don’t you?”
“It’s not on the edge,” he said, shaking his head. “See, we still have enough time to eat dinner and get over there.”
But I couldn’t help but think about how his timing and my timing didn’t even seem to be in the same row of performance’s theater. Continue reading “On My Chinese Husband’s Time”
