Free Sushi for One? by Camy Tang

the crab wontons. I’ll have a Caesar salad and the garlic-roasted crab with garlic noodles.”
    At least he had good taste in food. “I’ll have the same.” Lex handed the oversized menu to the waitress.
    George leaned forward. “You work at Pear Technologies?”
    She winced. So not her favorite topic. “Yeah.”
    “How do you like working there?”
    “Um . . .” Her boss was Captain Hook, her coworkers were nuttier than the seven dwarves, and she was worked harder than the Israelite slaves in Egypt. Not the most P.C. answer. “It’s okay.”
    An awkward silence fell between them. Actually, it felt more like the embarrassed quiet that hushed a restaurant when someone dropped a platter full of dishes onto the floor.
    “So, Lex, have you read the bestseller by that Asian author who goes by the pseudonym Mr. Roboto?”
    Lex blinked. He was kidding, right? “Uh . . . I don’t think Mr.
    Roboto is Asian.”
    “What do you mean? Of course he must be Asian. That famous song was Chinese or something.”
    She stared at him so hard, her eyes crossed. He was a complete idiot. “ ‘ Domo arigato ’ is Japanese, and that song was by Styx.”
    George gave her a Well, duh look. “And they did that ‘ Sukiyaki ’ song too.”
    “What?” Wasn’t ‘ Sukiyaki ’ by Taste of Honey or something like that?
    He sat back, his eyes heavy-lidded. “You didn’t know that? I thought you would, being Asian and all.” He smiled. All that was missing was a condescending pat on her head.
    Her gaze narrowed. Was it really possible for him to be such a blockhead?
    Here in the Bay Area, hardly anyone brought up her Asian-ness —it would be like living in Dallas and commenting on someone’s Texas drawl. A part of her was in shock at how he’d been both insulting and idiotic, while her hand itched to smack that condescending smirk off his face.
    Control yourself, babe. You’re in Crustaceans and you’re about to have a fabulous free meal. Remember the free part. She managed a strained smile. “You’re so multicultural.” Oh, gag me. “What’s your ethnic background?”
    “Oh, I’m an American citizen. I grew up in San Jose . . .”
    To add to the List: No ignorant ethnic remarks. Wasn’t that already in Ephesians somewhere?
    While he spouted off on his childhood, her mind wandered.
    Maybe she should have politely shut him down instead of appeasing him. This date had already started downhill. Why waste her whole evening?
    The burning question: Is the garlic crab that important to you? She hadn’t had it in three months. Ninety-seven days, to be exact. And George was paying. Decisions, decisions . . .
    “You know, you remind me of someone.” He squinted at her. Problem was, he squinted quite a bit below her chin.
    Lex sensed another goober remark up ahead.
    George snapped his fingers. “I know. You remind me of my ex-girlfriend.”
    Hadn’t anyone told him that mentioning ex-girlfriends while on a date was like begging to have his car keyed?
    “Yeah, you look exactly like her . . . except she was cuter — er, younger.”
    Younger? She was only thirty!
    “And she had a different body.” He sketched an impossible hourglass in midair — something like a 42 – 12 – 42. “And she had a larger caboose.”
    The room darkened. A blood-red haze blurred his face in her vision. “That’s a little too personal.”
    He waved a hand. “Oh, I don’t mind talking about it.”
    “Well, I do.” You cretin. She could barely spit the words past her gritted teeth.
    Oblivious to the gathering storm, George leaned forward. “But today’s technology is so great.”
    She spoke as slow and measured as a speech therapist. “And-what-is-that-supposed-to-mean?”
    “Well, you know . . . plastic surgery. It can help . . . people . . . look so much better.”
    She couldn’t speak. Her vocal cords weren’t responding.
    The moron kept talking. “You can get surgery for cheap. If you go to Mexico, you can get it for half the