Jasmine got up from the bed. In a way, Roger was right. She never did want to do anything. She wondered when life had become so B-O-R-I-N-G. She tried calling him again. There was the ring. What was he doing? Hanging out in the front yard? What a weirdo!
She looked at herself in the mirror. “I still have it going on,” she thought. “What am I doing? Maybe mother was right.” She sat down at her dressing table and brushed out her long, black hair.
“Mixed race marriage? Big problem. Live with first.”
“Oh mother,” she’d said. “You’re ideas are old-fashioned.”
“You come different worlds. How you communicate?”
“I came from San Francisco. He came from San Jose. How are those ‘different worlds’?”
“I come from China. You raised Chinese way.”
“Oh Mother.” Why did she talk like that? She had a PhD from Stanford, for the love of God. She was a brilliant woman. Why had she never learned proper English?
Jasmine was tired of being “different.” The truth was, she was neither Chinese nor American. She was some Amy Tan creation. “Joy-Luck Club my ass,” she thought when that book had been assigned in some college English class. “I’ll tell you about the Joy-Luck Club.”
She got the suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet and flopped it on the bed. She began pulling outfits from the closet and putting them into the suitcase. She couldn’t take everything, but enough to get away somewhere and think things over.
Could her mother be right? Was it some cultural thing that lurked behind everything, or did she really just find Roger boring as hell?
She tried calling again. This time he picked up.
“What the fuck have been doing in the front yard for the past two hours?” were the first words out of her mouth.
“I lost my phone,” he said, coming in the front door. “We need to talk.”