Out of Balance

Vi orders a curry cucumber sandwich and I order roast beef on a croissant. After the waitress leaves, I twist the napkin in my lap and sigh. “Don’t worry,” Vi says. “Eric is fine. It’s you I’m worried about.” “Me?” She removes a newspaper from her briefcase and unfolds it to a story about World Bank. “I think your boss is using you to get a little something extra on the side,” she says. I frown at the headline, “World Bank Reports Strong Finish to Third Quarter.” I skim the article, looking for clues, but find nothing except the regular media hype. Vi studies me. “I think your boss made up that story about buying them out just to make you feel important, so you’ll want to offer him your body as gratitude for his kindness.” “Why would he do that?” My eyes widen with disbelief. “I met the President of World Bank. I’ve seen their numbers. They’re hiding their liabilities through creative accounting, and Frank wants me to ferret out the truth. He trusts me.” Vi shakes her head in sympathy and reaches out to touch me, but I pull away. “Just because I didn’t finish college doesn’t mean I’m stupid.” When Eric and I started dating, I attended a few classes at the junior college, but could not get motivated enough to finish. By the time I was pregnant with Zenith, I had given up on school. Vi leans forward and whispers, “I never said you were stupid.” “Then why do you say things to make me think that you do?” I take a breath and try to steady my voice. “Frank doesn’t make me feel stupid. He gives me important work to do. He respects me.” “Ah, honey, that’s part of his plan to seduce you.” My eyes widen in horror. Vi gazes at me with a sorrowful expression. “I’m just trying to protect you. I don’t want to see your marriage to Eric jeopardized because of this job. I mean, you heard him this weekend, talking about the value of arranged marriages.” I want to laugh, but I don’t. Vi doesn’t know what inspired that comment. No one does. And no one will. Unless I decide to tell, which I won’t. The waitress brings our sandwiches. We eat in silence. Every now and then, I glance out the window at the passing traffic and the people strolling along the sidewalk on their way to meetings or restaurants or shopping. Vi does not mention anything else. Her focus seems entirely on my boss’ supposed ulterior motives. If I was eating lunch with Frank, he would talk about the bank, about my art, about what’s important and what’s not. He would not bring the conversation to my breasts, or my lack of education. But Vi does not understand that. And, for the first time in our friendship, I feel lonely, disrespected, and misunderstood. By the time the waitress brings our check, I have already placed my debit card on the table. Vi tries to give it back to me, insisting this is a business expense. That’s when I realize she thinks I need help. Psychological help. From her. Even though I can’t really afford it, I shove the bill and my debit card into the pocket of the waitress’ apron. Vi frowns her disapproval, but I don’t care anymore what Vi thinks, because Vi doesn’t believe I can think.