in the rain, on the streets of Vietnam Town in Orlando at a crosswalk was a young woman in a feather skirt and a batik head wrap.  arms and midriff bare, shoes in hand, she held on to a young man  by her side, unhurriedly, as they crossed the street.


i watched through the fogged up window at Ahn Duong's, over my bowl of egg noodle soup, and felt a twinge of regret over something faintly distant, something I could still taste. a regurgitated memory, perhaps. 

i wanted to be her.