Page 8
Minh looked at the pile of chairs, then at Hạnh.
Suddenly, he said seriously, “If you give me a chance, I promise that someday I can keep your bed warm.”
The glass in Hạnh’s hand nearly flew off the table.
The entire restaurant fell completely silent.
An old customer slowly put down his chopsticks and turned to the person beside him.
“This guy…
he’s gotten so desperate from being hungry that he’s lost all sense of caution.”
Hạnh’s face turned bright red.
“What did you just say?”
Minh swallowed.
“I said…
winters are cold, so I can buy you an extra blanket.”
Hạnh narrowed her eyes.
Minh scratched his head.
“Yes, well…
that’s what I meant to say.”
Hạnh grabbed a cleaning cloth and threw it straight at his face.
Minh caught it and even bowed his head politely in thanks.
“Do you know how old I am?” Hạnh asked.
Minh nodded.
“I know.”
“Do you know I have a grown-up daughter?”
“I know.”
“Do you know I’ve been through all kinds of things?”
Minh fell silent.
He looked at Hạnh’s hands—the rough, calloused fingertips from cooking, carrying supplies, and cleaning every single day.
“I know.
Hạnh stopped smiling.
Minh stopped joking, too.
Outside the door, the afternoon sunlight slanted down into the alley, casting pale streaks of light across his face.
He spoke softly.
“I don’t have a home.
I don’t have money, and I don’t have anything valuable.
But if one day you’re tired, I want to be the person who pulls out a chair and lets you sit down.”
Hạnh lowered her head, her fingers gently tracing the edge of the table.
It had been a very long time since anyone had said such simple words to her.
Not promises of wealth.
Not polished lines meant to impress her.
Just a poor man, so poor that he had to repair his sandals with electrical wire, who still wanted to give her someone to lean on—with the very shoulders that were already exhausted from carrying the weight of his own life.
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