#ting.

“you can go ahead of me, if you would like,” ting offers, in barely passable french, accent skewing the words, and she hopes that she’s at least mildly understandable. she’s standing in line in a patisserie a few streets over from the hotel she’s staying in, lost in thought as she translates the menu board from french, to english, to mandarin, and also just having a hard time deciding what she wants. she finds that’s the case a lot recently, after losing her mother, that simple decisions take all of her energy. “i am still deciding,” she adds in english.

“i have set out all the food, but i am having a hard time getting the white banner to stay up on the door,” ting tells martina, sounding a bit like she has a head cold. she’s cried so much the past few days that she’s finally out of tears, and now she just feels a bit numb, though the traditional white banner meant to indicate that a family has lost a loved one not staying up is threatening to bring tears to her eyes once again. “could you help me? it will only take a moment, hopefully.”

“how was your flight?” ting asks in a voice that’s almost a whisper. she doesn’t trust her voice to not break these days, feeling a bit like she’s constantly on the verge of tears. the funeral is tomorrow, but her friends are arriving today, and she’s helping get each of them settled into various guest rooms in her home. it’s exhausting, socializing, for the first time in her life. “i imagine you are very tired.”