Breath 7
As Tom enters the kitchen,
he immediately sensed the air, it was thick with the scent of lemongrass, chili,
soy sauce, and fresh basil on top of the steaming jasmine rice.
He wanted to say something.
To tell the chef what’s going on at the dining area.
But words won’t escape his shocked mouth.
His soul escaped. As if it left his body.
Leaving behind—-just, raw fear.
Instead he just stood there.
behind the swinging doors of the kitchen,
Watching Ploy moved with brisk precision,
plating two orders with a practiced hand.
She slid them across the counter toward Tom, who stood stiffly,
a shadow of worry clouding his normally bright “we’re gonna make it tonight” demeanor.
"What's wrong?" Ploy asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Close to choking, she knew her worst fear is happening again.
Just like last week when the raid happened.
She doesn’t even need to ask Tom.
She sensed the tension in the air.
She felt Tom’s fear.
His eyes, is a give away.
Tom's eyes darted to the kitchen door.
"Immigration," he said under his breath.
"I need two Mee Krob and six Pad Thai."
Ploy's hand paused mid-reach.
"And what about her?" Her eyes flicked toward the corner.
Tom followed her gaze.
There, hunched on a low stool, Ploy's mother sat quietly,
her gnarled fingers deftly carving potatoes into delicate,
edible roses. The soft lamp above her threw shadows across her lined face,
giving her the appearance of a faded ghost tethered to the
chaos by routine.
"Your mom?" Tom asked.
Ploy nodded, her voice cracking. "I don't know what to do, Tom. They're going to take her."
Ploy’s frail 90 year old mother immediately sensed the tension.
She knew what’s happening.
Something is not right.
Something is not restaurant evening normal.
She spoke softly in Thai towards her daughter, Ploy.
ลูก, มีอะไรเกิดขึ้น? (My child, what’s happening?)
Ploy touched her shoulder to assure her that everything is ok.
Tom took a breath, steadying his voice with resolve.
"Ploy, you have a restaurant to run.
Let me tell you what you're going to do.
You're going back to that fucking stove,
and you're going to make me six Pad Thais, two Mee Krob.
And for the other table—four Pad Kee Mao and two Tom Yum Goong.
That’s for the agents, and for our other customers"
"What about my mom?" Ploy’s voice wavered.
"I got this," Tom said gently.
He approached the old woman, kneeling before her with a reverence
that softened his features.
Her cloudy eyes met his, curious but calm.
He reached for her hand. She hesitated, then let him take it.
She held on to the small tub of carved rose potatoes soaked in water that she’s been
working on the whole evening.
As he guided her toward the back exit,
the door suddenly swung open.
Tom’s worst fear happened.
It was Nick.
The agent from last week.
Nick stepped in, blocking their path.
"Sorry to be a nag tonight," Nick said with a crooked smile.
His gaze flicked to the empty tray in Tom's hand. "What happened to the beers?"
Before Tom could reply, Ploy’s mother, still clutching the tub of potato rose,
reached up and offered one potato rose to Nick.
He blinked in surprise.
"Oh," Tom said, recovering. "Right. Coming up."
Nick leaned down, addressing the elderly woman gently.
"How are you tonight?"
Tom interjected quickly. '"She doesn’t speak……any English. Look, Nick—"
Nick’s eyes narrowed. "So, you know my name?
I thought what’s going on between us was just one-sided lust.
You didn’t return my call, Tom.
And in case you’re forgetting—the last time we raided this place,
someone got off the hook.
I’m not gonna be played.
I hate that.
I’m not going to be your 'thanks but no thanks' guy."
Tom glanced back at Ploy, who was trying to hide her tears
the stove firing behind her. Ploy turned her back and quickly mixed the
Pad Thai sauce on the noodles.
Tom was right.
She has a restaurant to run.
But——her mom.
"She’s too old," he said, turning to Nick. "Can we just let this go?"
Nick’s expression hardened. "You know I can’t do that, right? I’m an Immigration Officer.
And there are five others out there right now,
figuring out how to check everyone’s documents without raising panic.
So how do you expect me to just let this slip by?"
The air between them tightens.
Ploy's mother, still unaware of Nick’s real intent,
suddenly smiles and gently pats his hand.
She spoke in Thai,
ขอบคุณนะลูก (Thank you, my son.)
Nick stiffens. Something in his face shifted.
Tom saw this. He seized the moment.
Tom stepped closer, the space between them turned electric.
Or was it the kitchen bulb that sizzled?
It’s time to replace it.
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Because you... will."
And then Tom kissed Nick.
It was not a gentle kiss, but one born of desperation,
defiance, and something buried deeper.
When you ran out of choices.
There’s only one move left.
YOU NEED TO GO FOR THE KISS.
Everything in the kitchen froze—
the bubbling pots, the distant clatter of forks,
the Pad Thais and Mee Krobs waiting for Tom to take them to
the agent’s table, the Pad Kee Mao and Tom Yum Goong still on the stove,
the memory of fear in Ploy’s eyes.
EVERYTHING JUST FROZE.
Tom pulled away and continued walking the old woman toward the back exit
where a makeshift wall at the storage room is waiting to hide her.
Nick stood there, stunned, what just happened?
Behind him, Ploy turned slightly, her lips parting in a soft, grateful smile.
A minute or two later, Tom returned, a bottle of Thai beer in hand.
He placed it silently in Nick’s hand.
Nick didn’t speak. He just stared at the beer,
as if it held all the answers he didn’t want to face.
His fingers curl around the beer,
but his mind is elsewhere.
Outside, the muffled chatter of agents grows louder.
Tension still lingers, waiting to snap.
Tom filled his tray with the Pad Thai and Mee Krob.
He went out to Nick’s table and serve the Thai food.
Nick followed, he took his seat.
Tom returned with their beers.
The agents are satisfied.
For now.
They have Pad Thai and Mee Krobs to deal with.
Maybe later, they can deal
with shattering people’s lives and
burning all their dreams to the ground.
Until nothing is left.
Everything are taken.
