She held her chopsticks like a cigarette. She wasn’t speaking to me. I ordered another round of salmon when the waitress stopped by, because even though she said she was full I knew she wanted more, and I knew I had to do something to make it up to her. Her eyes were attached to the television set in the corner of the bar. There was a prerecorded tennis match from Australia on it. She didn’t even like tennis. When the waitress dropped off our next round of sushi her gaze never broke. She kept watching the men hit the yellow ball back and forth, over the net, chasing it around the red clay, grunting.
I asked her what she was thinking about. She replied, “God.”