Windscript Volume 24, 2007-2008 - Saskatchewan Writers' Guild

The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
Hayley Muench
The Chinese Restaurant
The long string of dingy brass bells tinkled against
the dull silver door frame, stirred by the sudden thrust of
the glass door and the reckless gust of winter wind that followed
it. The thick, warm atmosphere of the tiny restaurant
immediately evaporated the cold, its unwelcome guest. It
was replaced with the all too familiar mugginess, a combination
of the sizzling deep fryers and the balmy breath of undisturbed
conversation, melding together from each individual
table. Patches of haze lingered in the room, from smoke
emitted from smouldering ashtrays and steam from the hot
dishes of Chinese food. Candles flickered a red glow from
inside their molded, wax covered glass jars, contrasting the
dim illumination overhead from the low brass fixtures. The
oriental print rug, worn and faded, seemed to be the only
thing that tied the restaurant together. Mismatched pictures
of strange faces from the homeland hung unevenly on
the wall, coated with a thick layer of dust that seemed to
have an intention of permanence. No music played in the
background; instead the room was filled with the insignificant
sounds of clinking silverware, and voices as dull as the
tablecloths the words were exchanged over. Sometimes,
over the hushed chatter of the couples engrossed in their
meals and conversation, the broken English of an ancient
Chinese woman, skin like the bark of a bonsai tree, could be
heard. This restaurant was her home, with bits and pieces
of her memories, life, and culture, cluttering the walls – its
only purpose to remind her that she was not lost in this
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strange country. Yet behind her small, creased eyes, were
secrets held as the novelty fortune cookies held their
trivial messages. Each couple eventually cracked them
open, eyes grazing the red typed message printed on the
slip for a small instant before they became less favoured
to the crunchy treat. And after that, they got up, carelessly
slinging their coats on and venturing out into the frigid
evening as the forgotten paper fluttered with silence to
the oriental carpet. When closing time finally crept upon
the restaurant, the old woman carefully tucked each slip
away in a hand made box sent back from her home country.
She never forgot the people who came and went, as
they were not trivial to her, and neither were the printed
fortunes she so devotedly saved.
volume 24