In my late teens, I knew a man who was a sort of mentor to me. His name was Jack, and he had slicked back black hair and often wore polo shirts and khakis. He would always be smoking his Marlboro Lights when we talked, even if it was indoors. One day, while I drank ginger ale and he had himself a glass of scotch, neat, he asked if I was dating anyone. I told him no so then he asked if I liked anyone in particular. If I was infatuated with anyone. I told him there was a girl at school, Lauren, who I thought was really pretty. When he asked what was keeping me from dating her, I told him that she was probably out of my league. That I might not be her type. That it would be a waste of time to ask her out.

Jack nodded and took a few sips from his glass while we passed a minute in silence.

You should still try, he finally said. Does she have a nice body?

I told him that she was maybe a few inches shorter than me. Nice, round ass and perky tits. That she was pale and had a face you could never get tired of looking at.

You guys talk often? he asked. I told him that we had interacted in class a few times, but nothing more than on school-related matters.

I see, he said. He lit another cigarette and asked if I wanted more ginger ale. I told him I was okay.

Don’t be afraid of girls, he said. Especially the hot ones.

I nodded, hoping he would tell me more. But he didn’t say anything and kept drinking his scotch.

The next time I saw him, he asked if I had tried asking Lauren out. I told him that I hadn’t.

Give it a try, he said. Even if she says no, she’ll still feel good about it.

How about how I would feel? I asked. It would suck to get rejected.

Don’t worry, he said. You’ll get rejected many more times in life. It’s a good feeling to get used to.

Any tips on how I should approach her? I asked, knowing he had dated some attractive women in the past. He shook his head and puffed on his cigarette. Just be nice.

That’s it? I asked.

If you get really nervous, just tell yourself that in ten, fifteen years – maybe even in just five – she’ll be thicker, he said.

Thicker?

Yes, thicker.

***

I ended up dating Lauren for more than four years. Had it not been for my move to San Francisco and our ill-fated attempt to keep our relationship long-distance, things may have been different for us, but to be honest, I think it was for the best. A few years ago, I saw a video clip of her and her new husband in the Weddings & Celebrations section of the New York Times. She looked great and seemed extremely happy. She didn’t look thicker at all.

Jack died in a drunken driving accident not too long after I started dating Lauren. He never got to meet her. I think he would have been proud.

Note: First short story in almost a year – it’s been a while.

I recently moved to a new neighborhood. It’s a nice area with trees, small stores, and a park with a large pond. My place is a cozy one-bedroom apartment on top of a travel agency. I see a poster advertising cheap flights to the Philippines on its window. The poster reminds me of the time I sat next to a Filipino nurse who was flying on Korean Air and making the connection at Seoul to Manila. I had my headphones on, and she still started talking to me. She had a shadow over her upper lip that looked like a mustache.

I moved out the day my girlfriend told me that she’d been seeing someone else. We hadn’t been getting along, especially since I had quit my job and spent most of my time watching television. She went out a lot and never asked me to join her. She sometimes came home smelling of alcohol and red in the face. She told me I was a loser. I called her a bitch.

There is a small grocery store a couple of blocks from my apartment. It’s owned by an old Indian couple. They sell produce that doesn’t always seem fresh, and you can sometimes find cat hairs on the lettuce and spinach if you look close enough. They have a pretty-looking gray cat with bright yellow eyes. I never caught its name. I only stick to buying boxed goods there. The owners are super nice.

Earlier this week, walking into the grocery store, I spotted a familiar face. It was an old girlfriend. Hi Linda, I said. She was surprised to see me and said hello. I told her I had recently moved to the neighborhood. She had been living here for the past couple of years. She’s some sort of marketing consultant and works mostly from home. I told her I was in between jobs. We exchanged contact information and promised each other to have lunch or grab coffee.

Soon after, I thought about Linda from our days together. She’s an attractive girl with a sharp nose and narrow face. I noticed that she had lost some weight, although she was already skinny to begin with. She wears her hair differently now – much shorter and very straight. I wondered if it was one of those Japanese straight perms she had gotten. We dated briefly back when we both lived in the city. I met her through a friend at work, and we hit it off quickly. By the fourth date, we were talking about moving in with each other. We almost did, but things didn’t work out. She then had to travel for work every other week. We saw each other less and less, and I started talking to friends of other friends. We ended things on friendly terms but seldom spoke to each other afterwards.

This afternoon, we met up for coffee. Linda told me more about her work and asked me what I did on my free time. I told her I watched a lot of TV and applied for a few jobs here and there. She asked if she could come check out my place, since she had never seen anyone else’s place in the entire neighborhood. I took her back to my apartment. Although it was only 2 o’clock, I took out two cold beers, and we drank as we watched daytime talk shows. After a couple of bottles, I put my hand on her thigh. She took my hand with both of hers and pulled it towards her chest. We soon got naked in broad daylight.

I’m standing by the kitchen sink pouring myself a glass of water. Linda’s asleep in my bed or maybe she’s not. I wonder if we’ll be getting dinner together, or if she’ll put her clothes on and leave. I recently learned of a decent Chinese takeout in the neighborhood. We could order delivery and watch the evening news. It’s getting darker outside, and through my window, I can see the lights turning on around the neighborhood. I can still make out the big pond far away but the sun’s setting fast and soon, I’ll have to turn my lights on or jump back into bed.

Note: A juicy short story – sort of.

I think it first started the day she baked a cake and didn’t want it to go to waste. We lived across the hall from each other on the seventh floor of our apartment building.

She rang my doorbell and stood there holding a plate with a very large wedge of cake.

“Howdy neighbor, I made way too much and thought you’d like some,” she said. “It’s just butter pound cake with some nuts.”

I gratefully took the cake from her and said I’d return the plate promptly. The cake was moist and the nuts added extra flavor.

About a week later, I made too much shrimp fried rice, so I thought I’d ask if she had had dinner yet. I prepared a big bowl and garnished it with a lemon wedge and some cilantro and left it on my kitchen counter. I walked across the hall and rang her doorbell, empty-handed.

“Nope, haven’t eaten yet – I’d love to have some,” she said when I asked. I told her I’d be right back with her bowl. I returned and she received it with a big smile. “I’ll bring the bowl back when I’m done,” she said.

And without any deliberate attempt – at least for the first few weeks – we alternated cooking for each other. She made meatloaf. I made her penne a la vodka. She prepared teriyaki short ribs (very tender). I roasted chicken with garlic and herbs. She made me mac’n’cheese from scratch, using six different cheeses and small cubes of pancetta. The more times we went back and forth, the more elaborate the dishes became. I baked thin slices of salmon and wrapped them around grilled artichokes topped off with a lemon cream. She bought over a small bucket (no idea why she kept one) of steamed mussels in garlic and white wine sauce. I made pizza with fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, basil, and prosciutto, nicely spread over my thin handmade crust. She brought over a mini Peking duck kit with juicy boneless pieces, fresh flour wraps, and plenty of green onions and cucumbers. She admitted that the sauce was store-bought. The serving size could not have been more perfect – I finished every morsel without feeling too full.

Then one day, I decided to try one of my grandmother’s classic dishes – the sam-gye tang: steamed chicken stuffed with sticky rice, dates, chestnuts, garlic, and ginseng in a clear broth. I had to call my grandmother – still ripe and constantly cooking at 82 years old – for her exact recipe and ingredient amounts. I was a bit frustrated when she instructed me to “use my best judgement” for some of the seasoning, so I had to call my mom for more precise measurements. I found the all the ingredients in Koreatown and even stopped by Whole Foods to pick up an expensive, free-range chicken. I spent about a total of four hours making the dish, paying extremely close attention to the chicken, which I prayed wouldn’t overcook and become too tough. When I finally finished, I dumped the chicken and broth into a smaller, cuter pot and heated it a few minutes longer before taking it across the hallway. I also had with me a small Tupperware container of pickled daikon since I was unsure if she tolerated kimchi.

“Here you go – it’s a Korean classic. Hope you like it!” I said, handing the pot and Tupperware over to her.

“Wow this is a lot of food,” she said. “I might have to call Steve over to help me.”

“Yeah, it should be good for two servings – or dinner tonight and tomorrow,” I said. “Who’s Steve?”

“Oh, it’s my boyfriend,” she said. I thought I noticed a slight hint of regret in her eyes, as if she felt she had said too much. “That’s right, you guys haven’t met yet. I’ve been telling him so much about you and all your amazing dishes. I’ll be sure to introduce you two to each other the next time.”

“Great,” I said, forcing a girn. “Well, hope you guys enjoy!” I turned around and walked across back to my apartment, my appetite for my own serving of sam-gye tang completely obliterated. I stored it in the fridge for later and reached for the Heineken.

She returned the pot a few days later along with the Tupperware container. She told me she really liked the dish and asked if I could write down the recipe for her sometime. I told her I would. She said thanks and left.

The next week, she didn’t come. I made myself some Shin ramen with large chunks of Spam. I dropped two eggs into the pot after turning off the stove, letting them poach in the high-sodium soup. The next week, I switched to Neoguri ramen and decided not to use any Spam.

***

A month or so later, I ran to the elevator door as it was closing on the first floor. I got my hand in just in time, forcing the door to re-open. As I entered, I noticed her standing there with a tall guy. He seemed athletic and had a strong jaw and curly brown hair. His green eyes briefly met my eyes as I awkwardly stared at him for a moment. I heard her speak.

“Hey, haven’t seen you in a while,” she said good-naturedly, breaking the silence.

“How have you been?” I asked.

“Good,” she said. “Oh, this is my boyfriend Steve. Steve, this is Ryan, my neighbor across the hall.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said as we shook hands. “You’re quite a cook, aren’t you.” His palms were large and his grip was tight.

Before anything else could be said, we reached our floor. I let them out first and watched their backs, their hands linked together.

“Oh yeah,” I said loudly. She turned around sharply. “You guys should come over for dinner sometime. I’ve been itching to cook something fancy.”

She glanced over at Steve as if to communicate something by eye contact and then looked back at me. “Sure, we’ll definitely do that,” she said. We said bye, and I watched them go inside.

Back inside my place, I took out Spam and a big jar of kimchi. I didn’t feel like having ramen again. I washed some rice, turned on the rice-cooker, and waited patiently for the rice to finish cooking.