Vietnamese men should not be giving American women pedicures, should not be stooped over strangers’ feet. Should not look so subservient as they politely caress and rub disgusting, calloused, gnarled, misshapen feet of women who have the luxury and ability to pay to be touched.

I think I detect the smell of cheap alcohol as he coughs. I try to give him an out by volunteering I’ve been coughing a lot lately too because of the allergens in the air. He nods.

I tip him double the amount of the actual pedicure because I can imagine him squatting on the dirt floor of the Ho Chi Minh trail, in his rubber thong sandals, slurping tasteless hot liquid posing as broth. The sediments of a few precious grains of rice swirling in an eddy at the bottom of his plastic bowl.