Lin Page 34 his living on the tea leaves he harvests, and the garden is only for those he has known over his lifetime, or strangers who are absent-minded enough to let chance guide them up the steps. The only customers this evening have been a trio of betel nut girls, still dressed in their bikinis from their day's work, selling the nuts to passersby. Like pariahs, they must forever shuttle back and forth down the stretch of open street that serves as the outdoor market, dodging the irate food stand owners who feel their kind are bad for overall business. The master has heard about these girls -- twenty dollars for a bag of the nuts, one hundred dollars for extra services. Having acquired the habit of sucking on the nuts themselves, the girls huddled over their table in their dark transparent raincoats, puckering their lips, spitting the bloody juice onto the stone ground, picking the seeds from their mouths. There was something endearing about the garish blush on their cheeks and their naked knobby knees, but then they would talk, and it was all the master could do to not wince at the sounds. -- Did you know that she's seeing him? -- But that's crazy! Who would want to… -- I told you that he was in trouble! -- Stop making up lies like that! They would giggle and shove each other in the shoulders, and even the way they said master was like a casual insult: Master! Where's more tea! Master! We need some more peanuts! Finally they left, complaining of the cold, clomping away in their platform sandals, random little piles of nuts and red spit left in their wake, and yet the master found himself missing them as he mopped up the mess, staring at the rounded stone seats where they had been.