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It took him a total of eighteen minutes to decide to leave the house.
The sky was pitch black it was so late, and he knew trying to find a place open this late was a long shot, but his fridge was empty save for half a stick of butter and a jar of pickles. He really didn’t think he could fast for a whole other day, nor did he think himself talented enough in the culinary arts to slap together anything edible out of those two ingredients.
So Ari drove around the city until he found a place with its lights still on, the open sign hanging askew on the door, and was relieved to see it was a Chinese restaurant. Who didn’t like Chinese food?
He thought he knew what to expect when he pulled up to the Lantern House. He could see through the storefront window walls painted dark crimson, brightened up just a touch by several umbrella chandeliers.
Once inside, he saw watercolour paintings of lotus flowers and mandarin ducks and leather dining booths separated by large wooden screens. Carefully-folded cloth napkins were resting on top of plates made of fine china, chopsticks and soup spoons stacked in plastic containers at each booth, and lazy Susans spinning around porcelain tea sets and bottles of chilli crisp, soy sauce, and sesame oil.
There was a lucky cat perched on the corner of the hostess’s stand, waving at him mechanically as he picked up a menu from the neatly stacked pile. He looked around for the hostess, or any wait staff, but there was nobody else here. He heard someone rummaging around in the kitchen, could see the figure of someone hunched over the stove through the open door.
Ari perused the menu quickly, glancing up and down the laminated pages, only to realize this wasn’t the kind of Chinese food establishment he was used to.
Rather than the usual combination fried rice, orange chicken, and beef with broccoli, he was met with menu items like Hainanese chicken and rice, egg bean curd and fried gluten served in a sizzling hot pot, snow pea tips and goji berries in garlic sauce, chilli fried turnip cakes, and—was he reading that right?—blood jello congee.
What the hell was congee?
Or blood jello, for that matter?
“I know,” a voice said all of a sudden, following by the rhythmic tapping of a pen against the edge of a notepad. “Lots’a weird stuff in there, huh?”
“Uh—” Ari began, not knowing what to say without uttering something inadvertently offensive, halting immediately when he looked up to see you leaning against the doorway of the kitchen.
His cheeks grew warm for some reason. Maybe because he’d been half-expecting a woman donning a red qipáo with gold threading, her hair twisted up into a bun. Instead, you stood there staring back at him in a black t-shirt and jeans, your midsection covered by a plain red apron, smirking as if you could read his stupid mind.
He cleared his throat awkwardly and broke eye contact, mentally chiding himself that he should know better. He was no stranger to being stereotyped either, after all. God, he should just order something quick and just high tail it out of here before he embarrasses himself further.
But then you laughed good-naturedly, stepping forward and reaching out a hand to help him flip to the next page. You smelled like salt and spice and orange blossoms as you pressed yourself to his side, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, peering down at the pages while he stared at the top of your head in wide-eyed bewilderment.
“It’s not all weird, I promise,” you said, your voice tinged with amusement. “Any food allergies, sir?”
“No,” he managed to say once he found his voice, “but I like to keep kosher.”
“Ah, so shrimp and pork are out of the question then,” you nodded, not missing a beat, and he almost wanted to kick himself for not correcting you with his name instead. Then you looked up with an almost mischievous grin and a peculiar glint in your eye, and Ari felt his grip on the menu slacken just a bit. “You’ll need to trust me, stranger.”
Ari considered this for a moment. He was already here, and he likely wouldn’t find another place that was still open, so he decided that yes, he would. He was nodding before the thought had even finished forming in his head.
“How do you feel about grouper?” You asked and he blinked a few times before shrugging, not really feeling any way about it one or the other. You then proceeded to excitedly go through the menu items with him, pointing out the specials but also ones that you thought wouldn’t be too adventurous for a first-timer.
You promised to be right back, giving him one last smile before disappearing back into the kitchen. Ari shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing around the restaurant before sliding into a nearby empty booth while he waited for his order of salt and pepper fried grouper and Cantonese-style beef chǎo miàn, all of which came with a free hot and sour soup.
The place was quiet. Strange for any regular Tuesday night, maybe, but he suppose it wasn’t all that strange for Christmas Eve.
Most people were at home with their loved ones, sitting by warm fires and festively-decorated trees, eagerly awaiting the time for opening presents and dipping carefully-iced sugar cookies into steaming mugs of hot chocolate.
Feasts of their own had been prepared as they welcomed visitors of all kinds, some they saw often and others they hadn’t seen in a while, not many deciding to brave the cold and snow in search for takeout.
Except him, evidently. Well, not just him.
Because the door suddenly opened, triggering the chime of your security system, revealing a middle aged man and two small children brushing freshly fallen snow off each other’s shoulders.
“Excuse me,” the man called out hesitantly in an accent Ari couldn’t quite place. “You are open, yes?”
“Yes, we are!” Came your muffled reply from the kitchen, and a few seconds later you came running out with your notepad and pen. You rushed past his table, doing a double take before asking if it was okay if his order took a few minutes longer. Ari agreed amicably, it’s not like he had anywhere else to be.
He watched as you quickly ushered the family inside, seating them in a booth by the window so the children could watch the snow and twinkling lights outside. Ari tried to mind his own business as you poured them steamed hot cups of tea—an oolong blend that he would later learn was a favourite of yours, named after the iron goddess of mercy—and took their orders while they told you of their holiday plights.
The man’s wife and the children’s mother was unfortunately stranded in another part of the country due to the snow. She wouldn’t be able to get a train ride home until Christmas night, and as a result they had to postpone their family dinner. Thank goodness you were still open, because he couldn’t cook to save his life!
Ari couldn’t help but smile when you handed the kids some festive red envelopes to lift their spirits, each containing a chocolate coin wrapped in shiny gold foil.
And as the night wore on, only a handful more customers passed through the doors. With each visitor, Ari felt the world shift.
You waved goodbye to the small family as they piled into their car parked just outside the restaurant, not turning away until they were out of the parking lot and out of sight.
You smiled and listened attentively to the stores of a lonely older gentleman, who had lost his wife just months prior, and was spending the holidays alone for the first time in fifty years.
You cooed at a fussy toddler balanced against the hip of a frazzled-looking young woman who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, all the while packaging up their leftovers with practiced ease.
They all thanked you with smiles, some clutching your hand with shining eyes before they left, wishing you a merry Christmas and blessing your heart, as if trying to convey something else they couldn’t quite voice.
Ah, Ari thought as he glanced down at his table, noting the sign in your window that announced you would also be open on Christmas Day.
Even though most of the world was effectively on pause, you couldn’t close your doors yet. Not when there were people out there, no matter how few and far in between, who needed this place, who needed this small beacon of light on one of the darkest and coldest nights of the year.
For people like you and him who, for any number of reasons, weren’t celebrating today, or for whom it was just any other day, and who came in search of a warm meal when they had no one or nothing else.
Ari stayed after all, too caught up in the spirit of the season even though he’d never paid much attention in previous years. His earlier awkwardness and apprehension was quickly forgotten when you arrived with his order, smiling kindly when he didn’t move to leave and brought him a cup of tea, and he ate every last steaming morsel, slurped up every last noodle, and gulped down every last drop of broth.
Only when his takeout containers were clean and empty and his stomach was full did he actually stop and look up, and you were watching him with this proud little grin. He was helpless but to return the gesture.
“What’s your name, stranger?” You asked him before he went home, handing him the check on a small tray with a few mints in shiny red and gold wrappers.
“Levinson,” he said, so used to reciting his last name first. He quickly corrected himself, “Ari.”
“Okay then, Levinson,” you chuckled, your fingertips brushing against his open palm as you gave him his change. Then you looked at him with the softest smile, your eyes genuine, “Drive safe out there, okay?”
He nodded politely, popping a mint into his mouth even though he usually never partook. He would only realize later that it was out of instinct, quickly trying to stop his heart’s frantic escape. The minute they hit his tongue, however, he found that they were candies.
The entire drive home was milky and strawberry sweet, even if it ended with him slumped over with his forehead resting against the steering wheel when he remembered he hadn’t asked for your name in return.
And so it took him a few more days to decide to return, right before the new year, with only half the reason being the amazing food. The restaurant was much busier this time, but you still brightened visibly when he walked through the door.
“Levinson, Ari!” You shouted over the noise of conversation, over the hustle and bustle of your busy staff, all of whom turned to look in his direction, “you made it back!”
You were once again his server, flitting between tables before stopping at his, and he asked hesitantly why you didn’t wear a name tag. You blinked slowly at him a few times, before realizing with a surprised laugh that he didn’t know what to call you. You said it to him while beaming, Ari’s own cheeks almost flaming in a way he hadn’t experienced since his youth, nodding when he repeated it back to you in a quiet voice.
He made sure you didn’t see him pull out his phone, updating the entry for the restaurant’s number in his contacts.
How do you feel about grouper?
Without context, it was a strange question to fall in love to.
Because, looking back, Ari thinks he might have begun that sweet yet treacherous descent from that moment on.
It took him another six months before he managed to try everything on the menu, after you made substitutes for everything specifically so he could try them. Pork was switched out for chicken or beef, shellfish set aside and fish tossed into the mix in its place, even though they changed the flavour of the original dish.
“I hope you know what a big deal this is for me,” you’d joke, playfully shaking your head and rolling your eyes at him. But Ari always clocked the way you watched him with bated breath as he tried them, your eyes wide and hopeful without even realizing. He would later wish he would’ve told you that yes, he did know. Did you know how grateful he was?
Instead, he’d stare blankly at you as he chewed, only faltering and grinning when you groaned in frustration and impatience, practically stomping your feet as you whined, “Just tell me what you think already!”
And he would cave. Maybe not everything was to his liking, he admitted, but enough of it was that it kept him coming back.
Among other things.
It wasn’t long after that that he spontaneously asked you to join him late one night. He was up at odd hours of the night, so it wasn’t uncommon for him to swing by to pick up his order only minutes before closing. You began insisting he could eat there while you cleaned up, and while he watched you mopping the floors and closing the till, he glanced down at his meal and couldn’t help but wonder if you’d eaten.
It would be nice, he thought, if you sat down with him for a change. When he asked, his heart stuttering at the way you paused and looked so taken aback. When was the last time someone looked after you instead of the other way around?
There was no one else in the restaurant, the sign on the door already flipped over to say you were closed, and Ari, with all the boldness he could muster, gestured to the opposite side of his booth in invitation.
You glanced at him a little hesitantly, before looking away and smoothing a hand over your slightly disheveled hair and glancing quickly down at your plain yet sensible attire. With a bit of coaxing, though, you finally put aside your mop and decided to sit across from him after all.
And if he’d felt the world shift that first night, this was the night he felt it flip completely upside down.
Ari wished he didn’t have a penchant for leaving things unsaid, that he would have told you what he’d really thought then. You didn’t ever need to be self-conscious; he’d thought you beautiful since the moment you met, and this was how he always wanted to see you. And with each visit, it was just as thrilling to learn you were as beautiful on the inside.
Instead of the usual cups of tea, you brought out a bottle of chilled plum wine and a set of beautiful glasses that looked like they were saved for special occasions. You giggled when he pointed it out, whispering even though no one else was around that you’d bought it for dirt cheap at a flea market.
Ari smiled wide then, and soon all decorum between restaurant owner and customer was forgotten as he told you, through a mouthful of ground chicken and chives and a tangy black vinegar dipping sauce, “If I could only have one food for the rest of my life, it would be these fuckin’ dumplings.”
“Ari,” you chided, using your chopsticks to pick up a rice noodle roll stir fried in a fragrant satay sauce. He thought that it was the first time you’d said his first name, and that it might have been the best sound he’d ever heard. That was until you laughed, the musical little sound making his heart leap.
And even though he used to joke to his colleagues about how useless of a day Christmas was for him, even though he always used to say it was just another day, it seemed that even he wasn’t exempt from the makings of holiday traditions.
Because for years after, even when it wasn’t Christmas, you and Ari would sit together sharing meals in an empty restaurant late into the night. He got to know your regulars just as much as you—
Silas and his boys, the family who had come into the Lantern House the same Christmas he did and began making their own traditions of having family dinner here every now and then.
Mr. Han, who lives just across the street and always brings home an order of shāomài as an offering for his late wife.
Traci with an ‘I’, a college student and single mom, whose little girl loved your restaurant’s freshly steamed mǎ lā gāo.
—and you’d tell him that it reminds you of when you were a kid, when your neighbours all knew each other and took the time to catch up over steamed sticky rice dumplings and fried dough sticks wrapped in rice noodles.
And when Christmas Eve did come around, Ari would show up at your door like clockwork. Your staff would exchange knowing smiles behind your back, shooing you towards his table despite your protests of how busy it was, more than happy to take on the work in your stead for a change before heading home to their own families.
So, you would warm him up with a cup of tiěguānyīn and a kiss on the cheek. You would welcome him with open arms, literally, holding him close enough to let his heart beat right next to yours for just a few seconds, but it was enough. More than enough.
You would point to pictures pinned against the walls of your beloved restaurant, the ones that told your own story in a series of snapshots—tales of parents who were enjoying retirement as they zipped all around the world and sent you endless flurries of postcards, of lifelong friends who you either see often or hardly ever see anymore because life just gets so preoccupying, of the regulars who continued to be drawn in by the promise of hot meals and a warm heart.
Ari’s eyes would then land on one photograph in particular, swallowing hard to see his own blue eyes staring back at him from your wall, his smile easy and bright despite his normally serious disposition. It was taken on your third Christmas together, and you were leaning close to him in the shot, tucked right against his side just like that very first meeting.
He wanted you to give him permission, to tell him that his arm always had a place around you so long as he wanted it. And he wanted it all the time, he realized.
But Ari was never on leave for long.
The first time he told you about his job, minus all the unnecessary details that were incredibly classified, you did your best to send him off with a smile and well wishes. His work was important and he helped people, and he knew you would never consider asking him not to do it, even if it was rife with danger and uncertainty, even if he could see the part of you that worried he might never come back.
As the years went on, with each goodbye, you stared up at him as you pulled away from a hug, as if trying to memorize the lines and edges of his face, before tugging him back into embraces that always felt like they might be the last.
“How will I ever know if something happens to you out there?” You would say, trying to keep your voice light and smiling wryly but looking like your heart was catching in your throat.
“Aw, you worried about me?” He would joke, even though he knew he looked just as stricken and scared, wanting to say something else altogether.
As far as the world knew, you and him were nothing to each other. But to him, this was it. He didn’t care what, if anything, ever came of it, or whether it would remain just like this forever. This was all he ever dared to hope for.
He wanted this to be the only place he ever came home to.
He wanted to be the one to greet you with a kiss hello, smile as he tasted the sweet mango pudding on your lips.
He wanted to be the one to wish you sweet dreams with a kiss goodnight, then grumble about the way his mouth tingled with the leftover spice from whatever you had for dinner.
He wanted so desperately to be the one with the intimate knowledge of how you kissed first thing in the mornings.
And each time you bade him goodbye, he swore you were breaking off a piece of yourself to tuck into his carry-on.
Because no matter how far or how long he went, you never really left him. You flooded his memories the same way the smell of winter melon and pork bone soup flooded his nostrils as it boiled away on your stovetop, right from the moment he stepped inside your kitchen.
“Just because you abstain doesn’t mean I have to,” you’d tease before slurping noisily from your spoon and making obnoxious yummy noises.
You stayed with him the same way the sound of sliced rice cakes sizzling enticingly on oil-covered frying pans never left him until he’s had a bite. You tried teaching him how to make them one time, to less than desirable results.
“No, I swear it’s good!” You looked at him with wide eyes as you chewed. He would glance back at you, unimpressed.
“They’re not even fully cooked,” he’d say, but his cheeks were warm as he watched you finish them all.
And even though you weren’t with him, the thought of you still made him smile the same way he’s seen you grin to yourself, satisfied, after enjoying a mouthful of savoury and spicy dándán noodles.
“Obviously, I have to try them before I can serve them!” You mumbled through grease-covered lips. “It’s called quality control, Ari.”
“Obviously,” Ari agreed facetiously with a slight roll of his eyes, but the edges of his mouth always quirked up into a half-smile. “You bottomless pit.”
And when his plane finally lands, hours after the clock as struck midnight and signalled the arrival of another Christmas Day, his car makes the familiar turns and detours down the streets. He’s almost breathless when he arrives in a vacant parking lot, and the lights to his very own personal lighthouse are still on.
The doors open, greeting him with the sharp smoky scent of incense permeating the walls and tablecloths. You’ve told him on numerous occasions that you only light them now out of habit more than anything else, but you still promised to light one for him every now and then.
“A little prayer won’t hurt, will it?” You’d reasoned with a sheepish smile the very first time you lit one in front of him. “Just in case there is some deity out there actually listening, I need them to know you need protecting.”
Ari is going to tell you tonight, the very first chance he gets, that he knew he loved you then.
And with an offering of your now cold pan-fried dumplings placed onto the table next to the burning incense, he’s certain that all the gods are probably scrambling to hear your prayers for just a taste. Or maybe you thought the smell of his favourite food and the lights from the Lantern House in the otherwise moonless night would help guide him back.
Either way, perhaps it’s okay to think he’s alive because of them. Because of you.
When you step out of the kitchen, still wearing your apron, wrapped in red just like the very first night he ever saw you, Ari drops his bags to the floor with a careless thud. You open your arms and he falls into them, his hands finding their place on your back to press you close, and he feels like he can finally breathe again.
His lungs expand with something even lighter and sweeter than air—the smell of salt and spice and orange blossoms. He kisses away your grateful tears one by one under the watchful eye of a nearby lucky cat and falling snowflakes until your mouths touch, and then he’s whispering it between your lips.
Ari promises to always come back, every single Christmas until time stops and even thereafter, come hell or high water.
And every year, without fail, you will always be the light that guides him home.
fin.