Something about the rain calls for fresh air. I open a window in the impostor-apartment for the first time. I will be leaving in a few weeks. The rightful occupant has informed me of their return and has already bought a plane ticket.
Another friend has told me that they will be leaving Hong Kong, permanently, soon. We all leave eventually, they say. Or some say. I have difficultly believing people when they say this, or maybe I just have difficulty believing people in general. Too uncertain. There is no answer to the question of when we will watch another Ozu film together. It is difficult to grasp even though it is a certainty in and of itself: no answer.
This morning, I walk through the rain to a local diner on High Street and order five-spice pork over noodles with a cup of iced coffee. For me, this is ordering normalcy. This is ordering a breakfast of steadfast predictability. This is ordering the breakfast I have known in Hong Kong since day one. I open my three-week old issue of The New Yorker and read a personal essay about a writer who checked themselves in to a mental hospital. Things could be worse, I guess.