That’s how far my mind was from that. I hadn’t lived alone since college—first roommates, then a boyfriend for nine years, then seven months of limbo before I moved out. Now, it was just me and my cat, Lloyd, in a tiny rent-controlled apartment, and we were loving it.

I was deep in the early days of grad school.

After eleven years away from school, everything felt new. New classes, new ideas. It felt like a rediscovery. My ex had chipped away at me for years, deferring to his opinions until I didn’t even dress myself freely.

We’d leave the apartment, then he’d say it on the sidewalk.

“Your outfit looks really weird.”

And I’d rush back inside to change.

By Spring, the fourth semester in grad school, I was wearing my old treasures again. I put on a red and white polka-dotted dress, tailored for my aunt before I was born, which I’d updated by removing the sleeves and pairing with a white pair of Swedish Hasbeens. A former fashion designer in class saw me and said, “You look fabulous!”

That compliment stayed with me all day.

It was a reminder of the parts of me that had been ignored, hidden, invalidated.

One day, I sat next to a woman who looked closer to my age, made a joke, and she actually laughed. The next week in the hall she asks me, out of the blue: “Want to go to dinner with my boyfriend and me? His friend is an artist, you’re an artist… I think you’ll get along.”

She got my email. Sent the details. Next Friday.

Then, Thursday afternoon, an email. “My boyfriend and I can’t make it,” she wrote. “But would you still want to go with his friend? This is his email.”

Even then, I didn’t get it.

When I got home, I looked him up.

The home page of his website was a grid of his work. Mostly photographic self-portraits. In one, he was a silhouette with grass sprouting from his head. In another, his ears were photoshopped large and pointy, vaguely vampiric.

And then I saw it.

A portrait of him with a red communist star stuck into one eye.

And a single drop of blood dripping down that cheek.

I paused. There was a very real possibility this guy is a psycho. But a handsome, unusual, creative psycho.

I decided to flirt with disaster.

***

He suggested we meet in front of the New Museum—another flirt with disaster, since I’d never seen a show there I liked. But I was already taking a chance, so why not take another?

Walking across the Bowery, I spotted him immediately.

His posture was perfectly straight, and I remember thinking that was the sign of integrity. He was looking in the opposite direction, so I got to watch him for a moment before he saw me.

We greeted each other, and he headed right for the entrance. Guess we’re going in.

The show, against all odds, was good, really good. The piece that stood out was in a small, guarded room. On a stand was a life-size casket containing a hyper-realistic corpse of JFK. It was unsettling. As we stared at the installation, the museum guard watched *us*.

My date said something witty.

The guard burst out laughing.

And the three of us stood there in that claustrophobic little room, cracking each other up, over a fiberglass dead president.

***

After, he took me to Savoy. A couple of sips of wine, and another couple walked in. They implored: if we moved to the left, then they could sit next to each other. My date deftly moved himself like a knight in a game of chess. He jumped over me, so I didn’t have to, while accommodating the other couple. The bartender gave me a knowing wink.

Eventually, we walked to Union Square to catch the L train in opposite directions. It was nippy outside, and I felt my body relax as we entered the warm, underground air.

He stopped, looked me directly in the eyes…

And encircled me with his long arms, without a single point of contact. An air hug.

Then he said goodnight, turned, and walked away.

The proverbial “nothing but net” had become “anything but me.” I was stunned. I thought we had a wonderful night. I felt a vivid connection. But he avoided touching me. That means no chemistry, I guess.

When I got home, I emailed my friend.

“Had a great time. He doesn’t like me though. He gave me an air hug.”

The next morning, I woke up to an email from him.

No subject line. No words.

Just a JPG.

It was a silhouette of his face, a long-stemmed rose held between his lips.

Qingming Festival (清明節) is a day for honoring ancestors. As a clan, we’d take a day trip to the countryside mountain where generations of the Chiu 邱 family are buried.

It was a mountain full of relatives, chatter, and laughter, punctuated by firecrackers. I wasn’t a fan of the noise, but I liked the sharp smell of burning gunpowder.

What I adored was the ritual.

My mom would gather tiny orange Ixora chinensis flowers—the flame of the woods—and show us how to make garlands with a needle and thread. I loved watching everyone fuss over the placement of the yellow chicken, which had to face a certain direction or the whole ceremony was a bust. They’d obsess over the arrangement of fruit, sweets, and traditional foods cooked in the Hakka 客家 style.

Then we’d line up according to generational status, burning incense while praying to heaven, earth, and my grandparents.

The Names Carved in Stone

But one thing always irked me.

…

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We drove from Alexandria to Marsa Matrouh, the last city on the Mediterranean coast, before the road veered inland straight toward the heart of the desert. It took some time to break the ice with our Egyptian-Arabic guide, Rama, and her Amazigh friend Joseph, who was driving. The moment that finally did it was a mound of limes.

Joseph parked next to a traditional market for our lunch break, and Maciej spotted a wooden cart overflowing with them. He asked for five days’ worth for our morning ritual—a warm glass of water with half a lime. A dozen cost pennies. When we told Rama a single lemon in the States can cost over a dollar, she interpreted for Joseph and they both started laughing. Rama joked she would fill a suitcase with limes and sell them on a street corner in the US to make a quick fortune.

After a spicy seafood lunch, Maciej ran back from a few paces ahead.

“I just saw an eagle,” he said, his voice sharp with excitement. “Resting on a man’s arm.” He knew that raptors were meaningful to me.

He knew raptors were meaningful to me.

I caught a glimpse of the man & eagle a block away before they turned left, disappearing into the distance. Maciej asked if I wanted to follow, but I declined, not wanting to take up extra time. It wasn’t until we were back in the car that the reality hit me: I had hired them. The trip was for us. My regret was instant and sharp.

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I scooped him up. His big, round eyes met mine, unflinching and trusting. My errand could wait. Cradling the kitten, I turned for home. He purred the entire way, so relaxed I wondered if he was lost rather than feral.

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Nine years later, I moved out of the home I’d shared with my boyfriend and our two cats. My new apartment had a strict no-pets policy and needed significant repairs, so I had to leave Leroy behind at first. Faced with a difficult decision, I chose to take only him. Our other cat, Chairman Mao, was aloof and independent; Leroy couldn’t bear to be apart from me.

When my apartment was finally ready, I returned to the old place for him. Other things still needed packing, but he was my priority. I put him in a carrier for the sev…

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Our guide, Ahmod, met us the day after we landed in Cairo. He was a Berber whose family had been in Giza for generations, and we quickly developed a rapport. He walked us to the entrance, cut in front of the long queue of tourists, and bought our tickets. He led us straight to the Sphinx.

My anxiety started to build.

I asked anxiously, “You understand that I want to go into the King’s Chamber.”

“Yes, yes,” Ahmod waved his arm, a bit dismissive.

When he finally got us there, a line of 20 people was already snaking out of the entrance. As we inched closer, we saw how narrow and steep the tunneled path was.

The slow-moving crawl of tourists was stop-and-go, breaking our momentum and making the journey harder. In some places, the ceiling was so low we folded like origami frogs. The final few steps involved ducking under a square entryway at the bottom of the meter-thick granite wall.

When we finally stood up inside the King’s Chamber, we were met with chaos.

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