She stands in front of ranges of tofu products (ranges of them are expected in Noe Valley). She is in a rush. She bumps into a tall guy with an apron. He says "SoRy", with a rolling R and a rolling smile.
“Do you want to taste my Ravioli?” he says; “I beg your parDon?” she says, with a dental D and a dented smile. They both pause; they both heard the foreign land, the hours in a plane, the displacement, the hopes that someday, maybe. “I’m French. You?”. “I’m Polish. I came to AmeRica to sell Raviolis!”. "You DiD?".
He tells her about the foreign land; she hears the displacement. He tells her about the hopes and the American woman he married. She hears the fear that someday, maybe not. They wave goodbye. She grabs a pack of veggie dogs. He pours raviolis into someone's cup.