14
The soup noodles had been tasty, but like every other Asian restaurant in this time period they’d used too damn much wèijīng—MSG. Ming-Mei was certain she could sense its effect on her brain, breaking down the self-regulating functions of the appetite centers and making even reasonable people crave any kind of salty and fatty fast-food crap they could shove into their faces. She was grateful that Max appreciated food and used his head about it. If Clay had been taking over instead of her, he’d probably head straight to a street cart for a chili dog.
The air of the restroom hit her like a slap. Individually, men could be wonderful. In groups, they could be pigs, and nowhere was that more evident than in public washrooms. The urinals stank—usually unflushed. She tended to favor the stal
