Chopsticks
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"I require chopsticks."
Chow glanced up from his bowl of fried rice, both surprised Hak Foo didn't have chopsticks to begin with and that the man could keep his request so level.
They'd ducked into the restaurant more to get out of the rain than to eat. Chow's jacket off the back of his chair, dripping onto the floor. He'd had to duck into the men's room after they were seated to wipe his glasses off and try to dry his clothes in the hand-dryer. It hadn't taken, but at least he no longer looked like something the cat dragged in. He just felt miserably cold in his sodden clothes.
Hak Foo hadn't bothered with the hand-dryer. He looked sullenly miserable, his mane of hair dripping water. Though, Chow had to admit the way his clothes clung to his frame was actually even better-looking than usual for Hak Foo.
"Of course!" The waitress smiled and ducked off to get it for him. In cheery Cantonese, she called out to one of the other workers, complaining about the American showing off for his friend.
Hak Foo's eyes narrowed, and Chow mostly succeeded in not flinching.
"American?" He muttered in Mandarin.
For a moment, anger clouded Hak Foo's face. This time, Chow did flinch. Then the big man shrugged and picked up a crab rangoon with his fingers. "Red hair. Chinese always think I'm American."
Chow nodded. "And I bet Americans never forget you're Chinese."
Hak Foo grunted in acknowledgment, and then the waitress returned with the chopsticks.
The End