Not a problem, she sighs. But not normal.
The car whinnies a bit before the ignition catches. Looking straight
ahead, she says: You're not from Taiwan.
Why did you come here?
Good question. He draws a tired hand across his forehead, clearing
away the rain from his hair. Some of it lands on her.
Damn it, sorry.
It's nothing, she says. She shifts the car into gear. The intensified
ping of the rain against the windows is pleasant. As they turn onto
the main road, she activates the wipers. They silently watch the lamplights
dissolve and reform themselves every few seconds.
I heard your mother left your home a little while ago, he
says. You know where she went?
She's probably looking for me. She worries.
I thought she only cared about mahjong.
Mahjong and me. She rubs her sleeve against her eyes, then blurts
out: You know I've had two fathers.