Coconut Skins

My mouth is watering, even as I open the menu. I already know what I'm going to order, but I don't want to talk to him. I'm craving the oily crunch of the fried pork spring roll that always comes on top of my noodles. I run my eyes down the menu, and find my order. Noodle bowl #9. It has white slimy noodles and something he calls fish sauce. It's not really made of fish, I've asked. But it kind of looks like fish, the small red pepper flakes floating in the pinkish liquid. It's sweet and spicy.
The girl who usually takes our order isn't here, but a smallish man walks over and begins conversing with him. He orders his noodle soup, and I point to the noodle bowl I want. It has a name, but I can't pronounce it.
The smallish man nods and takes our menus. My security blanket is gone. I sit with my feet up on the chair in front of me and pick at a hang nail on my thumb. The restaurant is cold, as usual, and I can hear people talking in a foreign tongue behind me in the kitchen. We're sitting at a table in the middle of the floor. He takes out his palm pilot, and begins clicking away at something. He'll wait until our food comes before he starts talking. That's how it always goes. My thumb begins to bleed. The sharp stinging won't go away, because I haven't gotten the skin off, just pulled it back some more.
I look around, and notice a few bowls on a table across the room. The blinds are cracked, and I can see the cars driving past.
This place is almost always empty, in fact I've only ever seen one other person, but that was a while ago. My friends don't know about this place, I've asked them but they just shrug. I wish they did. Then we could talk about the smoothies, or maybe Megan's mom could bring us here for some. Then my visits wouldn't be only for us. Then maybe I could have fun here instead of just enjoying the food.
This restaurant is in the old part of town. There isn't much left here, and I don't know exactly where it is, but I recognize the teal and pink sign every time we pull up. He always brings me here for the smoothies. I wonder if I'll get one after lunch. I like to get the black squishy balls in mine. They look like blueberries, but they are slimy and chewy. They make the smoothie last longer, because it takes time to chew through them. I turn in my seat to look at the menu of flavors, and see the smallish man returning with two bowls. One for me, and one for him. He places the noodle bowl in front of me and I pick up my fork. First, the spring roll. I pick it up, it's still hot.
I can here him saying something to the smallish man, but I'm too engrossed in the smell of my food. The man hurries away, and we are left siting together over bowls of noodles. His is hot and mine, cold. We're different that way too.
"I got us something to drink," he says
"I already have water." I don't like taking extra things, because it makes me feel indebted. My presence is payment for the noodle bowl. A few word conversation is enough to cover the smoothie, if I get one. Anything more, and I'm afraid I'll have to talk more, or do something more than lunch. I hope he doesn't want to go to the train store again.
The smallish man returns with two tall glasses of clear liquid. It has white chunks floating in it. The man sets them down on the table and hurries away.
I stare at the glass for a moment, before he urges me to take a drink.
"Just try it, you'll like it." He always says that, as if he knows me so well.
I pick up the glass, and feel the condensation on the outside. I take a small sip, and a white chunk follows the liquid into my mouth. The drink is sweet and tastes like coconut, but not as rich as the milk. The white chunks are thick and hard to chew.
I make a face.
"What is this?"
"It's coconut juice, I told you you'd like it." He says. He picks up his chopsticks and begins slurping up the noodles in his soup.
I never said I liked it. The white chunks remind me of skin. There are fine lines running through the large pieces. It looks wrinkled in the large glass of juice. I guess it is skin. Coconut skin.
I stare at the glass as I begin crunching on the now cooled spring roll. Angry at the social debt I now owe, I decide I don't like the juice, and I most certainly do not like coconut skins.