The Date

I don't know any Chinese people,
I hear her say as she cuts into her
Peking duck, layering it onto
a pancake with spring onions
and plum sauce. I don't know
one single Chinese person, not one,
she says again, shaking her head,
and there are so many of them.
Her cheeks are full of duck
as she works with chopsticks
against her plate. I drink deeply
from my Mai Tai avoiding
the umbrella and the extra long
toothpick holding an assortment
of cut fruit. I try not
to put my eye out.
I don't know what to say about
her admission, and feel that it's
in my best interest to stay quiet.
She smiles and takes another bite.
She's enjoying the duck, the rice,
the pu pu platter. I tell her
that she has plum sauce, like blood,
running down her chin.
Politely, she dabs at it with her
linen napkin and winks at me.
It's going to be a long night.