11. Kota Kinabalu Cucumbers

A Story of Precision, Persistence, and Pickled Expectations

Symeon had trained for this.

He had mastered not only Chinese — but the Hakka-tinged dialect of Sabah. Thanks to Chat Chinese Sensei — the same wise companion who once taught him:

“Hey, you makan yet?”

This time, though, the mission was personal. For his wife, extra cucumbers weren’t a garnish — they were the Language of Love.

So Symeon approached 5 Star Chicken Rice like a man on pilgrimage. He smiled. He nodded. He delivered the line:

“Dua fèn jīròu fàn, jiā huángguā, boleh lah?”
   (2 chicken rice — please add extra cucumbers, lah?)

The waitress smiled. Bowed. Disappeared into the kitchen.

Symeon sat tall. His wife glowed with anticipatory bliss.

The moment was perfect.

And then —

She returned. Bowed again. Placed the dish down carefully.

Symeon leaned in.

There, arranged with reverence and sweet intention:

Three pineapple rings.
Glistening.
Proud.
Subtly threatening.

And on top?

One glorious slab of glazed pork.

Not beside. Not optional.
But resting regally atop the pineapples.

And beneath the pineapple?

No cucumbers.

Not a slice. Not a thread. Just emptiness and confusion.

His wife was silent. Not angry — just… wounded in a place only cucumbers can heal.

Symeon whispered: “I swear I said cucumbers.”

She whispered back: “I know.”
*(She didn’t.)*

Somewhere in the kitchen, someone added another pineapple ring to another plate, still not hearing the silent cry of love — softly spoken in Mandarin.