Central, Hong Kong Island, 9:30PM – Muggy.

Entry 86

Two books to return to people this week. One to a friend who I’d like to date, but our sexualities don’t match. Another to a friend who I did date, but our personalities don’t match. One book is about a writer. One book is about a teacher.

At a poetry night, in a bar off Pottinger Street, I pass one book off.

Tonight, more than a few readers hog the mic on stage. Too drunk, one insists on sitting down to read and then cannot find their poem on their phone. Another promotes their upcoming book launch with pixyish pity weaponized, “please come because my parents aren’t!” One calls their poem a supernova of depression.

My friend (guess which) and I giggle into our drinks. We don’t read any poetry. We don’t need to. We happen to be friends with Hong Kong poetry royalty and, anyway, we assume the privileged role of peanut gallery with relish, like young women with nothing to lose.

As I board the ferry home, I realize I still have the other book in my bag. Maybe I won’t return it.