I’m on the tram from Central to Sai Wan Ho Depot. At the very back, the seats and benches turned to face each other so that they are parallel with the tracks on which the tram stutters. That is where I sit. At the back. Against the window. A young couple sits opposite, chatting. They are not overbearing, overcloying, with the fact that they are a couple. They are not wearing masks. The man has a face like a mask (not the pandemic kind) that is too happy when he smiles, lots of teeth, and makes me wonder what he will look like when he reaches a certain age. She has a little pink cat keychain and a plush strawberry attached to her little black purse. Keeping that strawberry so clean is nothing short of a miracle. His hand is on her leg at all times. Her shorts are so short I feel like a mother at a parochial school. But they are overall sweet, if you want me to label them. Above hangs a sign that reads “Knowing you is like spotting a star out of a galaxy” which is quite an awkward statement. The Cantonese is much more profound, if straightforward. It reads “Chances of running into you are 7 billion to one,” which is in fact remarkable. That is why I am remarking on it. Do we even get 7 billion chances? And I have met a lot of new people lately. People who do not prop their nihilism up with gin. People who, if they do have nihilism, do not prop it up with anything.
Lately, I have been experiencing crushes sequentially, which is new for me because said sequence of crushes are not all-consuming. As in, the crushes are not crushing. And you can read that in both senses because, I am pretty sure, so far all these have been one-way ventures (and precisely why it is so nice that they fade and pass as quickly as they do - a buffet, if you will, and I do).
I do wonder if the fading of a crush also has to do with my credit card being canceled and thus my music streaming subscription going dormant. How much does music propel or feed a crush? Quite a lot. More than fifty percent, I imagine. They are, however, useful ways to break up the months, crushes. They have their place, their merit, their worth and what have you. I know a deep corner of my mind is hauling me through some kind of process by dragging me through the motions of the fizz, the flirt, and the fade. So in this instance I subscribe to the cliche, yes, wholeheartedly, to shut up and trust the process. Go on then. Sink your teeth into a bit of pop psychology. A barroom mantra. A cheaply framed aphorism placed in the corner of the bathroom countertop beside the soap dispenser. Just shut up. But what’s interesting is that the flirting is real and there is quite a lot of it and that there really is an art to it. (The general propensity of flirting calls into question the one-wayness of any given venture but it’s best to just ignore this). It is such an art, which is so pleasing when done well, that you can pretty much walk away and expect to receive a score announced over loudspeaker. Laughing is important, as are flippant remarks, and let’s not forget about outright teasing. It is important to underdo it. I’m woefully literal and prone to pragmatism, so until recently all the good flirts were passing me by because, but not limited to this, owing to how I have framed myself in this world, the cues were all off. If you know, you know, as they say.
Deep in Wanchai now. It looks like I am going to be late. But that’s the tram for you. Six people have come and gone in the place beside me, a fact which aptly works as a metaphor for my life at this time. There you go.