Every love story starts in want
Suddenly, this rain.1
Two weeks ago, we were in Hanoi.
We snag the last table in Mrs. Minh’s living room—of which there are three or four total, low to the ground with bright plastic stools that force you into a squat.
It’s stone quiet in Mrs. Minh’s living room, except for the occasional clinking of chopsticks and the slurping of pho—the clearest broth you’ve ever seen, true Northern Vietnamese pho, garnished simply with cilantro and chives and nothing else.
No one is talking, as if we’re all paying hushed reverence to the god of good meals.
We take our shoes off before entering the small, obviously lived-in space. To our left is a den full of people—Mrs. Minh’s family, presumably—making change and washing out pots and watching TV. To my right is a particle board bookshelf with dragons and buddhas and the practiced smiles of family photos. Past Vika’s shoulder is a cardboard box full of empty Japanese whisky bottles.
We sit on the plastic stools a…