Who was that?

{TING!}

Malcolm’s phone sat on the edge of the table.  The message came in just as the server was placing their appetizer between them and he had instantly turned his phone screen-side down.  The only thing Britta saw was that a message had come in from someone who’s name also started with B.  Was it his brother?  She knew Mal made up funny names for the contacts in his phone.  What did he call his brother?  Was it Broseph?  Had he made a portmanteau of Joseph and brother for that?  Britta couldn’t recall.  “Who was that?” she asked.

“I’ll find out later.  Damn, these look good!” Mal said as he picked up and removed from their sleeve a set of cheap, wooden chopsticks.  He broke them apart at the squared ends and then rubbed each rounded end down the length of the other several times.

“Why do you do that?”  Britta had picked up her own chopsticks and broken them apart.  She took a moment to place her thumb and fingers around the stalks.  It embarrassed her that she always had to practice a few clasps before she tried to pick anything up when eating out at this restaurant.  But, Chun’s Mongolian Grill was Mal’s favorite.  And it was Mal’s birthday.  And the restaurant was busy enough Britta didn’t think the server would notice her amateur attempts to pick up the perfectly steamed, then lightly pan-fried potstickers before resignedly stabbing one.

“Honestly, I couldn’t say,”  Mal replied.  He had deftly picked up a potsticker with his chopsticks, dipped it in the sweet chili accompaniment, then dropped it into his open mouth.  Mal chewed on the appetizer while answering, “I don’t know, really.  I’ve seen other folks do it.  I thought it was to rub off any splinters on the wood.”

“Hmph!” Britta harrumphed.  “Sounds like a silly reason to do something.”  Britta attempted to dip her potsticker in the soy sauce accompaniment, but it slipped off the end of her chopstick and splashed into the ramekin.

“Here!  Let me get you a fork.”  The server was filling the water glasses when Britta’s appetizer fell off the chopstick.  She reached into a pocket of her apron and produced a knife and fork wrapped in a napkin.  She held the rolled silverware out to Britta who limply accepted them with a tepid “thank you.”

Seemingly oblivious to the interactions between Britta and the server, Mal continued eating, picking up another potsticker between his chopsticks.  “I don’t know.  There’s no harm in it, is there?”  This time he dipped into the soy sauce, dabbing it lightly over Britta’s potsticker, still in the ramekin, and dribbling a little sauce onto the table as he brought the food to his mouth.

“It seems a little dogmatic to me.”  Britta unwrapped her silverware and stabbed her mangled potsticker with the tines of her fork.  She plopped the sodden food into her mouth with a slight grimace at the saltiness.  “Like, why even do something if it’s not really doing anything?”  She pierced another potsticker with her fork and placed it on the small appetizer plate in front of her.

“C’mon!  There’s nothing wrong with a little dogma and superstition.  As long as it’s not harming anyone.”  Mal set his chopsticks down and wiped his mouth with his napkin.  He sipped at his water.  “Is something going on?  You seem upset.”

Britta cut her potsticker in half with the edge of her fork, then stabbed one end with the tines.  She set her fork down on her plate and placed her hands in her lap, wiping her thumbs and fingers with her napkin.  “Who did you get the text from?”

“I don’t know.  I’ll check it later.”  Mal leaned forward, looking at the platter with the remaining potsticker.  “Do you want the last one?”

Britta waved away the question with a flick of her wrist and looked down at her still uneaten potsticker.  “Aren’t you even a little curious who that might be?”  She picked up her fork and placed half the dumpling into her mouth.  Rather than chewing, she pressed the food against the roof of her mouth, mashing the pork and dough against her pallet before forcibly swallowing with a querulous moue on her lips.

“Your main dishes will be out soon,” the server said, stopping by the table.  “Can I clear any of these starter plates?”

“One moment,” said Mal.  He swooped his chopsticks down and grabbed the last potsticker.  He lightly dipped it in the sweet chili sauce and placed it in his mouth.  “Mmm, mmm!” he murmured as he pointed at the platter, then gave the server a thumbs up as she removed the plate from the table.  “Mmm,” he exclaimed again as he pressed his closed fist to his mouth.  “But, really, who cares who texted me?  We’re having a night, right?  Let’s enjoy it.”

Britta pushed her appetizer plate to the side, still holding half a dumpling, and placed her fork on it.  “I don’t know.  What if it’s an emergency?”  Britta frowned and clenched her jaw.

The server returned with a tray of food.  She placed a bowl of steamed rice in the center of the table, a steaming platter of meat and vegetables next to Mal, and a plate of yakisoba next to Britta.  She cleared the appetizer plates and replaced them with larger clean ones, then made her way to the kitchen.  Mal picked up the bowl and used his chopsticks to plop some rice onto his plate, then offered the bowl to Britta.  “I mean, if it’s an emergency, they’ll call me.”

Britta took the bowl and held it over her plate.  Realizing the server took her fork with the appetizer plate, she looked for her chopsticks.  “Why would they call you?  No one uses their phone to call anyone any more?”  She picked up her chopsticks just as the server returned.

“I’m sorry,” the server said.  “I didn’t realize I had taken your fork.  Here’s a new one for you.”  The server held out another napkin rolled around a knife and fork.  Britta set the bowl down with a loud clatter and grabbed the proffered silverware.  She set down her chopsticks and the fork and knife and grabbed the edges of her chair.

“That’s how I’d know it was an emergency.  If someone actually called me, I’d know it was serious and timely.”  Mal ladled some of his entree onto his plate with a flat serving spoon.  “And what’s going on?  Can’t we just enjoy the night?  This food is amazing.”

“Can’t I just know who’s contacting you?”  Britta stood up abruptly and bumped the table with her hip.  Mal’s plate of food fell into his lap.  He stood up, the plate fell to the floor, and the food splattered on the ground and under the table.

“The hell, Britta!  What is wrong with you?!”  Mal shouted.  He dropped his chopsticks, grabbed a napkin, and started wiping the food that had stuck to his pants.

“I just want to know who’s texting you!”  Britta looked at the table and spotted her chopsticks.  She grabbed them in her fist, placed a foot on her chair and leaped over the table.  Mal held his hands up, but fell under Britta’s momentum as she landed on his body and plunged her chopsticks into his eye.  Mal screamed in pain, and writhed on the floor.  The table fell over, knocking Mal’s phone across the floor.  Britta scrambled on her knees to pick it up.

Mal quivered on the floor, one eye red and weepy, the other oozing fluid around the pair of chopsticks.  Britta held the phone up to his face to unlock the screen.  She scrolled through his apps to find the text messages.  At the top of the page was one unread message.  It was from “Britta BaeBae” and read, “Hey, sweet Mal!  I’m running a little late and will just meet you at Chun’s.”