On the first night, they blew out the candles and whispered in the suspicious darkness like spies unravelling their secrets. The tip-wary waiters kept their distance. And only a lipstick line on a brandy glass betrayed that they were ever there. Eventually, there was a cloud-careful moon and a long walk through the hotel-crowded streets smooth with the forgotten footsteps of long ago lovers.
On the second night, they found the river, simmering black with dancing silver ridges — so they hid on the balcony and wondered if anyone would find them. No one did. And then, when they had nothing left to say, their shadows leaned forward and undressed them, caressed them and covered them so completely with the night that only their breathing remained.
On the third day, they slept deep into the sun, and folded into the bedsheets and their newspapers, they drank coffee and had breakfast and spilled the orange juice. They walked past the museums and found a few tales of conflicting folklore from the market merchants who had stories to tell. Then, as the afternoon slipped into evening, they wandered and wined their way back to the hotel for late night shrimp and avocados.
On the fourth morning, they picked up their telephones from the hotel safe, and when the taxi driver asked them about their luggage, they just shrugged. At the airport, they phoned the kids to come get them because — after 20 years of Valentine’s Day weekends — Mr. and Mrs. Cooper were not foolish enough to pay for airport parking.
Happy Chinese New Year! With that in mind, here is a reissue of WD Fyfe’s Fractured 12 Years of the Chinese Calendar. Enjoy!
WD Fyfe 