I spent the entire night at Starbucks chugging coffee with Lisa to the point of nearly missing my flight in the morning. I had to rush back to my rundown apartment building in Chinatown without an elevator to fetch my luggage.
Upon turning the key and throwing the door open, I saw Sophie. She stood in the center of the living room, donned in a large Ralph Lauren shirt, which I recognized as Ethan's favorite shirt. The shirt was barely long enough to cover her upper thighs, exposing her smooth and silky legs. Her blonde hair was still wet and draped over her shoulders. It was a distinctive look of someone who was just coming down from the bedroom afterglow.
When she spotted me, she cocked a haughty look that was both arrogant and fraudulently innocent. How very old money of her.
“Oh, Arya? Is that you?”
She leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed as if she owned the place.
“Sorry, I thought it was the delivery guy when I heard the door open…”
How could she mistake me, Ethan’s real girlfriend, for the delivery guy? That was microaggression at its finest.
Well, too bad for her, I was not interested in playing along with these little games of hers.
“Forget about it, Sophie.” I shot her an icy look and said, “You have no right to ask me why I’m here, at least not until you put your name under the title of the building.”
Then, I pushed against her shoulder to shove her out of my way. It was a proper, fierce shove. I had no reason to hold back. Then, I walked straight into the apartment.
After grabbing my already packed suitcase, I turned to leave. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the bedroom door left ajar. I spotted Ethan still sleeping soundly in bed. The sheet was pulled down to his waist, revealing the silhouette of his back. There were also two empty wine bottles on the bedside table. The label on the bottle read Château Margaux 2015.
My heart skipped a beat. Those bottles were worth six hundred dollars. I knew because they were the birthday gift I bought for him last year, I had to live frugally and drink instant coffee for two weeks straight to save up the money for them.
At the time, he kissed me tenderly and told me, “Honey, these are too precious to be drunk right away. I’ll save it for a special occasion.”
It seemed like taking me out of the picture and marrying the daughter of a rich family was the special occasion he had in mind. Just like that, the last vestige of my affection for him evaporated like the wine stain at the bottom of the bottle.
Ten minutes later, the taxi driver stuffed my suitcase into the trunk. While the taxi coursed down the highway, I watched as the world-famous skyline of Manhattan shrank by the second. The Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building… all those steel behemoths we used to gesture at from rooftops seemed completely indifferent.
I pulled the eyemask over my eyes to snuff out the last vestiges of light from the city. Expensive wines and empty promises were the last thing on my mind. What dominated my thoughts was the old kitchen back in Sunnyvale. I saw visions of Grandpa spending all afternoon making beef stew and chicken soup in a cast-iron pot. They were piping hot and rich with flavor; they were real, and it was the place where I belonged.
