He came for the bitter melon every Tuesday night. Sometimes he ate it with delicate white fish and sometimes with rice noodles in tangy ginger sauce. With each bite of the bitter melon, he tasted his regrets, chewed his sorrow, and swallowed his failures. They lodged in his fertile stomach and sprouted an evil vine that twisted up his esophagus, wrapped tendrils around his heart and lungs, and bloomed with deadly flowers in his brain.
Tonight he was having the bitter melon with his missed opportunities. He had been organizing his thoughts all week so he could deal with this issue with dispatch and precision. The waitresses grew still when he entered the restaurant. He suspected they could see something growing behind his eyes.
But really, he was so close now. Two, maybe three weeks. His atonement would be complete, the evil contained. He would take an axe to the roots, kill it before it could spread to anyone else.
He sat down at his table and waited. The cook carried his bitter melon to the table and placed it gently in front of him. The woman was ancient, with tiny black eyes hidden in wrinkled folds of brown skin. She sat down opposite him and handed him chopsticks.
They ate together. First one took a bite, and then the other. With each bite he examined a missed opportunity, chewed it up and swallowed it. He opened his mind to accusations of prejudice, greed, and laziness. He let the bitterness roll on his tongue, knowing he would never have to taste that particular flavor again.
When the dish was empty, the old woman leaned forward. "I have something special for you."
He sat back, frowning. She had never changed their routine before. A young girl in a white dress brought him a bowl of ice cream. She put two spoons on the table.
It was his turn, so he dipped his spoon into the ice cream and tasted it. It was creamy and sweet, like the taste of the first kiss, like the taste of a woman's mouth. He could feel it sliding down his throat.
The old woman took a bite, and then it was his turn again. This one was different, bright and clear against his tongue, like a woman's skin, salty and wet from the ocean.
His third bite was golden and heavy and warm, the rich sunburst in the belly when a man climbed into a woman's body for the first time, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him.
The old woman leaned forward. "Can you taste it?" He nodded. Black flowers were dying in his brain. She put her spoon down and leaned forward. Her eyes were strange, like his. He could see something growing behind then, tender green shoots with fat pink buds. "You'll need a lifetime to taste it all."