Imperfect Triangle

Chapter 2

Though I know it's utterly pointless, I do fantasize about fairy tales. Since I first met Mr. Morita at the Caffeine Lab, he has been the recurring cast of my entirely fictional fantasy with ideas borrowed from Disney's princess movies.

Mr. Morita is a real person with unrealistic features. High-bridged nose, thin lips, chiseled jawline and sparkling eyes; everything on his face is in the right proportion, as though every detail is executed according to a thousand-year-long plan.

He's tall and slender, yet muscular. It would have been fair if he had been cursed to be bald before he hit thirty. But the universe is never fair, not even once. Mr. Morita has it all.

That's exactly the reason why he deserves a cameo in my fantasy. He would fan me with a gigantic palm-leaf when I lie on a pearl-white beach, under a coconut tree in Hawaii, sipping a glass of margarita; Or he could dress me up like a barbie doll and take me to a medieval-themed ball.

There's no way I can fit Jin in my fairy tales. Jin is not a prince. He's either a thief or an assassin, maybe heroic, but I would not enjoy sneaking around in darkness with him. Let the fantasy focus on something less life-threatening.

Mr. Morita is chatty. He talks to all sort of people at the coffee shop or along the streets. The difference between social classes never seems to bother him. I saw him once exchanging all the bits of gossips of the business circles with an old shoeshiner in a back alley (that old man certainly knows a lot). Mr. Morita's voice was warm. He did not treat the old man, who kneeled before him, brushing the tip of his luxurious leather shoes, like his servant. It did not surprise me when he initiated our first conversation with the nicest intention ever.

"You should tell your manager that you and the other girl should not be treated that way," he said, placing an empty cup in front of me as he finished his coffee.

"Excuse me?"

"Your co-worker. He's rude to you."

"Oh, Ming? Yeah. He's a sexist jerk. He thinks women are better than men in serving the customers," I said as I air-quoted the word "better".

Ming has always considered himself a barista, instead of a waiter, though all of us are trained with the skills to perform the duties of both. He acts like he is superior to us simply because he has a penis. He's not even that good as a barista.

Every night, after the Caffeine Lab is closed, he never takes out the trash or mops the floor; he claims men are better with the numbers. As Roger, our manager, tacitly agrees, Ming is now responsible for counting the cash.

Mr. Morita tried to set things out for me many times, but Ming just never learns. Nonetheless, I appreciate his help. He is just too perfect. It has become my mission to look for his flaws. So far I have nothing on that list.

How can I possibly befriend someone like him? I'm sure I made the right call: I bailed on him that night.

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"Why didn't you wait for me last night?" Mr. Morita comes straight up to me after he pushes through the doors of the Caffeine Lab. We are about to close the business in five minutes. Glancing at me, Naira giggles and continues to wipe the surface of the counter.

"Sorry, I was busy." I shrug. I'm not lying. I was busy with putting Grandma Ying to bed. "Coffee on me."

"When will you ever be free?" he asks with his arms crossed.

I pause and put some effort in giving a good answer to his question. My little herbal tea shop actually closes on every Sunday. And if Roger gives me a day off also on a Sunday, it's possible that I'll get some free time the night before.