Close Enough
by Yimi Lu
“Faye.”
My name comes from the counter, and I look up and catch the barista’s eye. Just as I start to stand, Jeff waves me back down and heads over to pick up my latte.
“This is spelled ‘Fay,’” he says, turning the cup so I can see. The name is smudged. The latte art wobbles on the surface as he slides the drink across the table.
I nod. “That’s fine. As long as it’s mine.”
“It’s important to get the name right,” he says. “My last name’s Zhang. People often write ‘Chang.’ Maybe because of P.F. Chang.” I smile. He adds, “You get it, right? You’re from China.”
“Yes. I know the difference.” I don’t mention that his pronunciation is slightly off.
“It’s annoying when people assume I’m from China. I was born here in California.” He doesn’t sound that annoyed.
“You sound American to me,” I say with a smile. “Like a slice of California sunshine.”
He stirs his iced Americano with his straw. The ice clinks softly. I can tell he’s about to speak, so I let the silence unfold. He takes a sip, then says, “Can I ask you something?” I make a small gesture for him to go ahead. “What’s your name? Like, your real name.” His voice dips, uncertain.
I let the foam collapse before I answer. I’ve said this name on my passport and in job interviews, but I’ve never said it on a date. “You want to Google me?” I ask, half-joking.
“No,” he says too quickly, as if rehearsed. “I’m just curious. People use their real names more nowadays—”
I cut into his words and spell it out. “Shi-Ting. S-H-I-T-I-N-G.”
He repeats it slowly, building it from mismatched syllables. “Shhh…ting.” Not right.
“Shī,” I say. “It’s more solid than shhh.” His face shifts slightly as he tries again. Still off. I smile. “That’s close enough.”
“How did you land on Faye? That sounds nothing like your real name.”
One month ago, I got another rejection, this one starting with “Dear Shiting.” Final interview, vague mention of paperwork. The email said “unfortunately.” I could only hope it wasn’t about ability. That night, I opened a dating app. In the name field, my finger hovered. Then I typed “Faye.” It looked false. And strangely clean. “My pet name was Feifei, back in my hometown. That’s what my grandparents and parents called me when I was little.” I stare at my latte for a second. “I feel somewhat connected to this name.”
“Feifei?” Jeff repeats.
The sound pulls me backward. My grandma scolded me for sipping tea, her slippers whispering against the wooden floor. The apartment was small enough that she could reach me in two steps. I used to sip quietly, just to hear her call my name. She passed away a few years ago. The apartment was sold. No one has called me that name since.
“That character can mean talented in Chinese,” I add. My voice is quiet. Not exactly true, but like shhh to shī, it’s close enough.
“That’s beautiful,” Jeff says. “How about Shhh…ting? Can you say it again?”
“Shī, like a poem. Tíng, like elegance.” I repeat it, though I imagine it makes no sense to him. He tries again. Still not right. “You can call me Faye,” I say.
He laughs. “Deal.”
The conversation shifts into safer places. An hour passes like that—pleasant and typical. As we leave the coffee shop, I let myself wonder if there might be a second date. Maybe we will even make something out of it.
Jeff holds the door open for me. Sunlight spills hard across the sidewalk.
The cup is half-empty. The name smudged: Fay. Not quite mine. Nowhere close enough.
I drop it into the trash, but in the air above the bin, I almost hear my grandmother calling me in from the street. I wonder if, next time, someone will learn to pronounce my name.
About the Author
Yimi Lu grew up in Shanghai and now pretends to settle in Northern California. She writes about people who don’t say what they mean. By day she builds code; by night she disassembles herself to see what remains. Her work appears or is forthcoming in MoonPark Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, among others. Find her at https://www.yimiwriting.com and on X – @yimiwriting.
