When I was in JC, I had to see a cardiologist. The nurses strapped me up with wires and hooked up a small metal box on my chest. I wore them all under my uniform for 24 hours. The wires, the electricity, the small metal box. 24 hours later, the doctor told me I had a hole in my heart.

There is a cup in this world, with a hole at the bottom. You can pour all the water you want in it and it would be empty. Dripping out, leaking out. You can fit the entire ocean in it. It would be empty.

"Drink me fast before I am empty," I told her. And in the darkness, she sought me to quench her thirst.

I was afraid to be alone. I did not like to feel empty. I hated the twilight, the changing of the lights, the transition when I had to be alone.

And then, She told me she could stay through the night. I woke up in the morning and she was still with me. We went for breakfast; we ate lunch; we had dinner together. Supper was in bed.

"Why do you want to stay with me?" I asked.

She showed me her heart. There was a hole too.
I laughed and cried:

"That makes us two! That makes us two! And now, it would be a lifetime for us to learn how to share our solitude."

The only winning move is not to play.




Not to play, make any sound, respond.

She was wearing a black dress.
Dark, soft, sensuous.
The same coal black hair flowing down her neck, her egg-shaped face.
And a blush on her face as she sat beside me.


"Anna Sui. Night of Fancy," I said.

"Yea," she replied.

A rather sheepish reply. And she looked embarassed for a moment. (I gave it to her before we parted.) But quickly she regained her composure.

She scorned, "And you. Still smelling like ashtray."

"And Versace," I added.

She smiled. And so did I.


She was wearing the black dress.
Dark, soft, sensuous.
The dress that I took my time taking off.
My fingers walked the contours of her body, explored the new geography, and unhooked the pearly round buttons behind.
The same coal black hair that my fingers ran through, the neck that I breathed hard on and the egg-shaped face that I pecked.
And a blush on her face as she lay beside me.

She dreamt she saw me though I was faceless. But she knew it was me.

"I had a strange dream," she said.

"Yeah," I replied.

"I dreamt that you were my lover and you were also my husband," she said again.

We were lying on the bed facing the window, our legs resting on the grill. The sky was full of fluffy white clouds. The bed was large and comfortable - soft and cool and topped with a fine cream bedsheet. She ran her hand across the fabric, feeling it. She was not smiling anymore. She looked uncertain, frowning, peeking glances at me. Something wasn't right. She turned to look at me, and her eyes were lucid clear. She was looking out at the world. Looking at me. Her round eyes of blackness.

"It is a dream, my lao po," I told her, "I am not your husband. And I am also not your lover." I held her cold hands tight in mine to stop her crying.

She then said, "Yes, you are right. But dreams are meant for dreaming. Dreams are meant for desires.

We can hitch a ride to the stars
pretending to love
without
the problems and the consequences of love
till the morning comes down
to break our hearts
and we will then say goodbye
with a smile."

She nodded. I covered her with the blanket and she curled up like a baby. I laid down beside her, patted her, and sang her a song that had no words, until eventually, she went soft and deep into a quiet quiet sleep.

I then saw myself floating backwards, floating away from her.


The clouds pasted on the sky had turned dark.

Remember.
Don't worry.
The hurting can't last forever.
It's just a long drawn moment.