A lighter one, this time. You may recognize the characters from some of my other stories. If you haven't read all my stories, don't worry - they're written to stand alone.
The characters and situations depicted may be real, fictional, or some combination thereof.
And I'm not giving too much away to say that there is a "Nita" - muse, inspiration, and best critic. This story was written for her. I hope you like it, too.
Javahead
*****
I like living in the Bay area. The winters are warm, the summers aren't too hot, and there are lots of things to do. But those are just bonuses; the real reason I like it is they're used to interracial couples. After a while, getting stares on the street gets wearing.
Not that people are usually hostile - most places we've visited, people are curious, but friendly. Still, it's a real relief to be just another couple rather than Exhibit "A". Especially when you *are* just another couple.
Over the years, you get to know all the stereotypes. It seems every possible combination has its own set, some more insulting than others. Perhaps we shouldn't complain; white male/Asian female is one of the most common pairings, and seems to have the fewest critics. But people sometimes ask the *stupidest* questions.
***
I could tell Nita was angry when she walked in the door. She had been bouncy, almost bubbly, when she left - after all, she was going down to the travel agent's to pick up plane tickets for her first trip back to Hong Kong in three years. But she came back in looking ready to bite.
"Neets? What's wrong?"
"Oh . . . that *woman* at the travel agent's." She rolled her eyes meaningfully. "I suppose she means well. But I felt like spitting in her eye."
"But what did she *do*?"
"Started asking questions about my trip, and how long I've been here, and our marriage, and why aren't you coming along this time . . . and then she told me not to worry, that once I had my green card I could divorce you if I wanted."
I started laughing. Stereotype number 1 - the green card marriage.
"All right, what did you tell her?"
Her mouth twitched. "That I wasn't sure - that after all the things you'd forced me to do, that no decent man would want me. I had to talk her out of calling the police." Despite her anger, she was giggling.
I gave her a jaundiced look. "Wonderful. So I'm cast as a sexist pig taking advantage of your poverty and innocence?"
She tried to look demure. "She'd heard all about it on one of the talk shows - you know, the poor mail-order brides from third-world countries, willing to put up with anything for a chance to live in the US. It would have *so* disappointed her to hear that I'm a US citizen. And haven't always *really* wanted a nice, subservient, woman to be your combination cook, maid, and sex slave?"
I snorted. "Subservient? *You*? Now the 'sex slave' part sounds kind of interesting - when are you planning to start?" From long experience, I ducked before she could throw a pillow at me.
***
It was a very *long* month. Fortunately, the same project that kept me from going with her took up enough of my time I didn't have time to brood. Even with her letters, the house felt lonely. Her return date seemed impossibly distant.
I was at the airport an hour early. I know better; if nothing else, on international flights you have to figure another half hour or more after arrival for customs. So I took along a book to read and went anyway. I think I read the same chapter at least twice before giving up.
When the gate finally opened, I almost didn't recognize her. Nita usually dresses either stylishly or California-casual; I wasn't prepared for the poorly-cut, cheaply made, out-of-date, dress she was wearing. Rather than her usual pony tail, or her occasional mild perm, she had her hair in schoolgirl bangs - it looked as if someone had stuck a bowl on her head and cut across the front.
"Nita?" At least her smile was the same - her usual quirky grin. But when I got closer, she held out her hand to me rather than running in for a kiss.
"Dave? I so glad be here. Could you help me with bags?" Her accent was thick enough to cut with a knife - and even when we'd first met her everyday grammar was better than mine.
Fortunately, I've had long experience with Nita's sense of humor. By the time we reached the car I had recovered enough to decide to play along with whatever she had in mind. In her last letter, she had warned me she had a surprise ready when she got home; after all this preparation, it seemed a shame to spoil it.
"Oh, Dave! You car so nice!" The picture clarified a little - she was playing as if she were a stranger. As if she had never been in this country before. I had a hard time keeping my face straight when it hit me - she was playing mail-order bride. And that meant I had my own role to play.
