wok magic

          Ling assumed command of kitchen and cuisine. Wok magic, peanut oil and inscrutable spices. Old Hank lost ten pounds within a month. He grew to love fruits. Bernice would appear now and then and cook wonderful meatless dishes from the Caribbean, from the Mediterranean, from India and China. She moved through the air.
          "I could live on tea and oranges," he said one day.
          "That come all the way from China," she replied in song.


                                                                                    *


           He sat with Bernice in the breakfast nook where a Toshiba laptop shared counterspace with a Grundig radio. She asked him, "Have you hit on Mom yet?"
           Gleaming: "Yes, I have."
           "And?"
           "And she responded."
           "Told you."


                                                                                  *


          The sky over Granville Island danced during a celebration of Aurora Borealis. After a few tokes on a slim doobie Ling was able to watch the celestial circus with mirth and delight. The spectra of color reminded her of the DNA helix. She found herself walking along a vantage from which she could see the marina. Electric light pas a deaux upon black water. Vancouver lay hushed. No police sirens. Ling grew contemplative. The city looked clean. No grime at night. Just damp reflections of gay shimmering neon. She felt the urge to visit Oz.
        

                                                                                   *


          Ling strolled into a music shop crammed with rockers of all stripes. First she noticed three white girls with beads braided into their hair. Wearing brownleather bomberjackets. And ankle-lengthed granny dresses that swished about their Doc Marten boots.
          Oz owned the Vinyl Jones. His becoming an entrepreneur was something she never envisioned.
          "Cherie!" He had spotted her first.
          Wearing a black Calvin Klein ensemble, coat and slacks, mitigated by a black teeshirt emblazoned with Korn, he descended green carpeted stairs from an open office in the center of the floor. From his desk upon a dais fenced by etched glass and carved wood he was able to view everything that went on in the shop. Almost. He lacked security cameras.
           "Nice throne," Ling smirked.
           "Gimmee a hug."
           They hugged like coldnosed panda cubs.
           "So howzit working out?" he asked.
           "They're family."
           "Glad for you. Really. No shit."