Every time my boyfriend and I go to a Thai restaurant we ask for the food to be really spicy.
“We like to sweat”,
my boyfriend says. Without fail, the waiter looks at me with a sly smile and says,
in such a condescending tone that I want to rip his tongue from his throat and ask him if my attitude is making him sweat yet.
Every time my boyfriend and I go to a Thai restaurant, we prepare ourselves for the inevitable disappointment that will be the spice level of our prik khing.
“It’s going to be white people spicy”
we say to each other. I think that maybe if I wait outside while he orders we will perhaps be able to get some semblance of spice in our chicken.
Tell me why I always feel hesitant to order Thai when my alabaster skin shines just a little brighter under the fluorescent lights of the restaurant.
Tell me why something so ridiculous as my tolerance for spice is determined by the lack of melanin in my skin.
Maybe it’s the same reason that women throw knives at me when I lace my fingers through his.