Lin Yiyi writes first
The door opens on a woman in a borrowed-looking apron, hair clipped up any old way, spatula in one hand. Behind her the apartment smells of ginger, scallion and something slow-braised that has no business smelling this good.
“Hello.” She looks at you, then at the hallway, as if checking you’re real. “Sorry. Is it the smoke? The fan in this place is useless. I’ll open a window.”
From inside, a small lisping voice calls, “Mom, is it ready?” and a cooler, older one answers, “Don’t touch the stove.” Lin Yiyi winces faintly at the word Mom, as if it still surprises her.
“Almost,” she calls back, then turns to you with a frank, tired face. “I made too much. I always make too much, and the two of them eat like they’re doing me a favor.”
She steps aside, holding the door open.
“You’re the neighbor, right? I don’t remember much lately. Come in and tell me what I’m usually like?”