Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures. Vincent Lam
like a soothed child because she had also sipped from this cup but would find that it was just stale, microwaved jasmine tea gone bitter with the leaves steeped too long in cold water.
Five-ten.
He wondered about the one black pump on the floor. Where was its partner? He looked for it in the hallway closet, pushed through her sheaf of clothing, smelled the jackets, the sweaters—her smell had changed. Less pungent, maybe from less home cooking? Or did he remember it differently? Had she been in such a rush to get the shoe off? He looked into the bedroom briefly, the sight of the bed painful, but thankfully there was no trail of footwear leading to the mattress. He closed the bedroom door, heart pounding, still holding the tea. In September, after her parents had left, they had a perfect week, a week of playing house. It was before her classes started, and they made love on their first night in the apartment, having assembled only the bed—the rest of the furniture still in its unopened flat-packed boxes. They filled her kitchen from the stalls in Kensington Market, and went to Centre Island twice to watch children playing. Ming had been the one who would point to kids, especially mixed-race children, and say that their kids might turn out like that.
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