The couple living across the street in the suburban village of Royal Hills seemed perfectly at home in the idyllic middle-class environment of American log cabin-themed homes on manicured lawns. Except for one thing. Well, two things actually. But the first thing that stands out is that at 8 AM, it is the wife who takes the car and goes to the office while the husband dressed only in plain brown house shorts waves goodbye to her while carrying and shushing their tearful one-year old daughter. I only know the wife’s first name, Sally. In my head, I go, “Sally, that girl,” from the song with sexually explicit lyrics popularized by 2 Live Crew many years back. I have not talked to the husband nor do I intend to. He is a scrawny slant-eyed man who is fond of wearing nothing but short pants perfect for displaying his unappetizing bony body as he putters around in their unfenced yard. He reminds me of the stereotypical characters in classic Chinese movies, like the distraught cook or the manager of the bar where the fights usually take place, so I named him Wang-fu. The other thing that stands out about Sally and Wang-fu is how odd they look together. In the mornings, Sally, with full breasts, slight belly fat, and generous hips and buttocks straining against her form-fitting office clothes, would kiss a practically skeletal and half-naked Wang-fu goodbye at their doorstep. From Monday to Friday, variations of this same scene would play out before Sally gets into her silver 1.3 Toyota Vios that is decent enough for a bank employee except for its cheap dull magwheels. When Sally steps out in her three-and-a-half-inch patent leather heels and still wet rebonded hair reaching the middle of her back, I see a woman with a parochial air that cannot be shaken off even as she takes the wheel of her car. Her corporate attire screams department store and belies the sophistication she wants to project. The epitome of a grim and determined worker who rose from the ranks, Sally hardly smiles, if at all.
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