Sex sells, and although I won’t make a dime from this, I will at least fulfill a promise.
In a dark space, a low light illuminates a young woman standing. A young man approaches her, takes her hand, and together they dance a waltz of romance as music swirl them around. Their smiles and laughter sparkle and bubble like champagne, and love was so young. Fresh love. Young love.
They spend days walking on clouds together, holding hands, and never noticing anyone else. Two lovebirds gazing into each other above the steamy mist of the coffee cups: dreaming of life together, and marveling at the beautiful inner goodness and soul of the being across from them. It was heaven coming down to earth like sweet, warm rain.
The music plays again and they waltz through a wedding, childbirths, and into the old age.
Into old age, the man one day stands by the kitchen window and look out at the sprinkling rain and sighs a wishful thought. How he wishes the woman that he loved was more exciting. She is kind and loving, but not exciting. There is no story about her, nothing exciting to tell anyone.
He longs for the thrill of being able to explain to people that she was a mail order bride from some Asian country that he picked out of a catalog of pictures. The mail-ordered bride that didn’t know an ounce of English, but knew how to love. She would never object, and always acquiesce. And how the neighbors would whisper – hee hee, he would love that. How he would have love that.
As the man turns from the window to look at the tiny woman moving around the kitchen, he sighs. The woman in the kitchen looks like an Asian but that’s it. She’s too Americanized, too much talk. There’s no argument that he can win with her, and she’s way too bossy. She is a clumsy cook, indulging in odd dishes. Although he appreciates her apple pies, he doesn’t understand why she devoted years to master that one recipe but only recently started making more than one-dish meals and convenient meals .
He heaves another sigh as the rain splatter falls harder against the panes like teardrops of disappointment. He looks out into the soggy world and dreams of running away to the Philippines where the women are plenty, and they know how to love a man. Women there spend their days waiting for their men to come home, and the food is plentiful. A man there is lord of his castle. No more getting up in the mornings and pouring his own cup of coffee. In the Philippines, his breakfast is served to him. No more sharp orders for him to clean up after himself. In the Philippines there would be no sharp orders unless they are from him. He can order seafood everyday – lobsters for only a dollar apiece. That would be nice.
The rain continues to fall. The man is called out of his daydream.
“The coffee is made, come get some.”
“Would you like some some melons with your breakfast?”
“Come get it.”
“Bob, what is wrong with you today?”
“Nothing my butt!”
“You don’t talk right.”
“I talk perfectly well.”
“I wish you sound more Asian, act more Asian.”
“Me no English.”
“Helen, not like that.”
“Me still no English.”
“Bob, could you stop all the sighing?”
“Sorry, Helen, I was just wishing that you could be more exciting.”
“You know that Russian woman at church? She and her husband met through the internet, and he brought her over to the US.”
“And I was just wishing that you were something like that.”
“I am something like that. Call me your Immigrant Wife.”
“But you don’t act like one.”
“Exactly! I am the successful immigrant. I have catapulted pass the looking like one and acting like one.”
“You are not understanding me. I want the gentle, and serving woman.”
“Okay… Give me back your plate and coffee mug. You stay here. I will go into the kitchen and come back out with a new plate and hot coffee for you. Just wait a minute and then call my name.”
One minute later…
“Coming Bob! Here’s your breakfast. And coffee.”
“You’re welcome, Dear.”
(Sex may sell, but so do false advertisement.)