I heard the squabbling in Chinese from the back of the restaurant as I waited at the counter for my takeout order. The couple were always yelling and screaming at each other. It could be love talk—I did not speak Cantonese.
She stormed forward—her normally pristine blouse splattered with blood. I did not know what to think. She slammed the brown paper bag on the counter; it also had blood drops on the outside.
“Sweet Sour Chicken, Pork Dumplings,” she growled in her deep accent. “Nine-fifty-three.”
I stared at her without saying a word, handing her my credit card.
“Machine broken, you have cash.”
I nodded and opened my wallet. I pulled out a twenty. She snatched it out of my hand. I noticed blood on her fingers.
“No change,” she stabbed at me with her shrill voice. “Thanks for sharing nice tip.”
“I’ll go next door and get change,” I reached for the twenty, trying to smile but for some reason was not sure whether it were a joke.
“You want be matching set of things at bottom of Christopher Walken’s Christmas stocking?” She asked harshly, holding up a fork impaling her husband’s eyeball.