We find a Vietnamese place between where I live and Q works. It’s fair since neither of us likes walking too far from where we need to be.
“Why are we getting Vietnamese?” he asks.
I shrug. “I wanted soup.”
“We’re in Russia. They practically invented soup.”
“Yeah,” I agree, “but,” I point to the bowl, “this is the only soup they won’t put mayonnaise or sour cream in.”
Q nods. “I am so tired.”
He sighs, “I went on a walk last night with some racist girl.”
“How do you know she was racist?” I ask.
He shrugs, “The Paris test.”
I choke on a bit of soup. “What the hell is the Paris test?”
“I ask them if they like Paris.”
“So, if they say no, they are racist.”
I sit back and try to find some secret meaning in what he said. I don’t. Instead, I say, “what?”
“Well, you know how racist Russians are. If they don’t like Paris, it’s because of the immigrants.”
I cross my arms, “that’s–”
“And,” he cuts me off, “what do they say after that?”
I sigh, “that they are dirty and cause a lot of crime,” I mutter.
“That they are dirty and cause a lot of crime,” Q repeats, pointing at me. He raises an eyebrow.
I sigh. “Okay, yeah.”
“To be fair, it’s mildly racist for Russia,” he admits, “like the other day, I was playing never-have-I-ever with some Russians and one girl–out of nowhere just goes ‘Never have I ever run down the street with niggers.'”
“Uh–what does that even mean?”
Q throws up his arms. “Who knows.”
“So, walking girl was just mildly racist.”
He nods, “for Russia.”
“In England, she’s an outright bitch.”
We finish our soups in relative silence. When the table is cleared Q wipes his hands on a napkin. “She did say the n-word, though,” he admits.
“So, she’s full racist then.”
“Yeah, full racist.”
“So are you going to see her again?”
He sits and thinks a moment, “it was a really long walk. I don’t think I want to do that again.”