A Fiction Scene

Orlando, ngày 10 tháng 2 năm 2025

    Để ở đây một cảnh truyện mình viết trên lớp làm kỷ niệm. Thầy trừ mất 2 điểm nhưng hôm đấy mình ốm, mệt lả ra nên chấp nhận số điểm này.

    Yen Khe and Anh Hung were still wrapped in a soft gray blanket, sleeping soundly.  Every corner of the bedroom—and, for years, the couple's entire Paris flat—reflected the elegant touch of Yen Khe, an interior designer with a deep love for Japanese minimalism. A low platform oak bed with the walnut-stained headboard commanded off-centered of the room. The pale gray walls carried nothing but a single piece of art: the black-and-white photograph captured Yen Khe's happiness from her first maternity. Below it, a small, framed photo of little Lang Khe, their daughter, placed beside a slim novel on a simple but beautifully crafted nightstand. A soft woven rug covered the floor. By the window, stood a chair crafted with a silk scarf casually draped over it.

    The alarm rang softly, breaking the stillness. The soft dawn light sneaked through the sheer cream curtains into the bedroom. Yen Khe stirred and reached out to silence the alarm. She yawned, lingered for a moment, and stretched slowly like a cat, as the first notes of the day’s rhythm began to play. Her eyes now adjusted to the dawn light. She immediately grabbed her phone, and soon the room filled with soft melodies from her favorite soundtrack. “Bae, it’s almost 7!” she woke Anh Hung up before leaving to prepare breakfast.

    This was Yen Khe's favorite time of day, when the flat was into the stillness of the early morning. She slightly smiled, thinking of her dream last night while walking down the stairs. Now in the kitchen, she looked around, deciding where to start. "Soymilk," she thought, "then the omelet."

    The next hour would be busy, but Yen Khe made it look effortless. She moved through the kitchen with a natural rhythm, humming along with the music as she switched on the blender, pulled two large pots from the cabinet, and placed an empty milk bag inside one. She preferred everything prepared ahead. The soybeans had soaked overnightlong enough. Yen Khe started the process. She had made soymilk so many times that it had become a kind of meditation. Each of her movement flowed into the next like steps in a dance. She squeezed the purée so hard before heating up the soymilk pot on low heat. Letting it simmer and thicken, Yen Khe turned around to the fridge. She put the leftover soy pulp, okara, container in. “That would be enough for a small batch of fresh tofu tomorrow,” Yen Khe thought while taking a few eggs out. She cracked them into a bowl and beat them together. She then turned to stir the soymilk pot and melted some butter in the pan beside it. The omelet did not take Yen Khe much time to finish.

    If one thing could make Yen Khe talk for hours, it was cuisine. She could cook delicious dishes from many different cuisines, even Indian or Lao dishes. Yet, Vietnamese food always brought her the purest joy. Her mother taught her to appreciate and preserving Vietnamese cuisine. As the second Vietnamese generation living in France, Yen Khe admitted that food was the most powerful and easiest way to connect her with Vietnam, her homeland. Preparing dishes from scratch had become a part of Yen Khe's childhood memories because in a certain way, people were made from the food they ate. No matter how busy her day was, she spent about three hours in the kitchen. Her children, Lang Khe and Cao Phi always greeted her with the same question, asking her what she made for dinner, when they arrived home. Love was always present in Yen Khe's small kitchen with the aroma of freshly homemade pho, bun bo Hue, steamed rice rolls, or mi Quang.

    “Morning, bae!” Anh Hung said when he pulled out the chair and sat down at the table. Yen Khe turned around and smiled at her husband.

    “Will you be—,” he took a sip of milk, “Ouch, that’s hot!”

    “Careful!” she looked at him.

    “—on set with me the whole day?” Anh Hung continued.

    “Nah, I’ll stay in France until the afternoon, I guess,” Yen Khe said while cutting the omelet, “I’ll join you later in Belgium. Costume truck coming this evening. Hopefully, nothing’s wrong.”

    Every week, Yen Khe takes several trains back and forth between France and Belgium to work during the day. On set, she was always in a very relaxed mood. On the rare days she was absent—like the one time she went to Italy—the set would quickly be in chaos.

    After their meal, Anh Hung wiped the table and washed the dishes while Yen Khe stored the leftover milk in the fridge and cleaned up the counter. Then they both went upstairs to get change and be ready for work.

    It was 3 p.m., and Yen Khe was waiting for her train to Belgium. After being at her seat, she gently closed her eyes for a quick rest. An aura of quiet grace and calm always reflected on Yen Khe. “Live with ease,” her grandmother would often tell the family, teaching them to embrace joy gently and face sorrow with steady hearts.

    On the train, if you caught Yen Khe slightly smiled, she was likely drifting through memories of gentler times— far from the busy months spent crafting costumes and designing sets for Norwegian Wood in Japan. Those eight studio scenes had taken Yen Khe eight months, nearly twice the time she'd had for Éternité. Perhaps, it would be simple as if she had just found the perfect lace pattern for a dress as delicate as flower petals, or she was lost in thoughts of cherry blossoms and peonies dancing in and out of view, letting her heart float free for a moment.

Cre: Dinh Duy