Sai Ying Pun, 10:00AM – Bright.

Entry 83

The first night of the year to wake with sweat on the sheets. The all-day whir of the ceiling fan in the imposter apartment. People talking about junks. This morning, men are up and down the hill of Sai Ying Pun delivering bags of ice stacked on bare shoulders. I count 2 tank tops, 6 bags of ice, 3 flights of steps.

Today I am dressed like an ink drop flicked from a leaky pen, a dash of black through this white hot city. I like it that way.

High blue skies. Vacation by the Go-go’s on the ears. Their vowels are Californian, like the sun today, and I take each one in. Rounded. Raised. Reduced. Each makes me think of the beach, and the beach makes me think of Lamma. Two weeks without you, and I still haven’t gotten over you yet.

I take the MTR to Kwai Fong and watch the cumulonimbus clouds peek between shipping containers as we whoosh past. I wonder if this vacation was all I ever wanted, if I had to get away, and whether it was meant to be spent alone. I get off the train with the Go-go’s, feeling content. You can see it in my walk.