She picks quietly at her cold Szechwan. The thin noodles bend softly around the fragile, plastic fork. Faint traces of MSG are forced down the esophagus. Numbly accepted.

"Hungry?"

She shakes her head. The television blares on, muted and unnoticed.

He swallows a mouthful of mushroom fried rice, little pieces of brown sauce-stained Uncle Ben’s sticking to the back of his throat. "I’ll get rid of this." Joshua gets up and throws away their Styrofoam plates, pressing them neatly into the bottom of the garbage bag. On top goes the Chinese food.

She fumbles with a package of soy sauce. It wasn’t completely filled, she notices, delicately squeezing the plastic; no matter how she tries to make it whole throughout, a tiny bubble of emptiness remains. She reasons they don’t consciously understand the deeper meaning behind it. Nobody understands emptiness.

"Still feeling hung up?"

Naomi blinks. "Yeah."

Joshua takes his seat opposite her. She stares at him softly. "Maybe its jet lag," Joshua offers.

"Maybe." Her brown eyes lower to the table and her lips purse in a tender, gentle manner. The room around her is silent, spare the faint electrical hum of the television.

"Is it something else?"

Naomi passively holds a corner of the tablecloth, captured by the indigo cloth pattern. "I don’t feel well."

"Are you sick?"