We left our little one at home with her big sisters,
drove to Paris without knowing
where we’d park,
where we’d eat,
where we’d sleep.
His MacBook in his lap,
the lid covered in stickers,
Star Ferry, Clock Tower, Peak Tram, Peak Tower, Typhoon Shelter,
me driving,
us deep diving into retrofitting
solar panels,
air-cons into a late 60s Mies-style flat-roof bungalow we thought we could afford.
The architect’s drawing signed the year of his birth.
By the time we got to Paris,
hot air was rising
from the asphalt soft,
my cotton dress,
his linen shirt sticking to our skin wet.
On Blvd St. Germain
he moved an app-tethered e-bike,
I parked our fully repaired Tesla.
We walked to Pont Neuf, out of commission,
with an alpine mountain plonked on top.
By the time we finished the evening we ate
Kou Shui Ji (口水鸡), sparkling red, fiery hot.
Pai Huang Gua (拍黄瓜), bright green, cool.
Zhu Jiao Mian 猪脚面,
so rich and dense,
the outdoor folding table might have collapsed.
Ice-cold Tsing Tao bottles condensing in the heat,
my dress unbuttoned lower than safe,
my cleavage adding to the street-side heat,
him sweating.
We had slept,
me rotating my bum into his groin,
his breath short and shallow before dropping into a deep, slow embrace,
in a cheap motel with a car park so tight
I left it to him to get it in.
By the time we left the French Open,
we had watched tennis from the centre line.
Jovic, sweet, with tight top braided hair walked in
hand in hand,
guiding her assigned usher, of preschool age, to her bench.
Osaka held the audience breathless as she took the court in a bronze gown, glittering.
When she removed it,
the outfit underneath belonged on an Olympic ice skater.
My right hand tapping his left thigh.
“Where’s the ball speed indicator?
Look over there,
that’s her coach,
that’s her mom, or maybe her sister.
Look at that, 188 km/h.”
During the water break Iva hid a bag of ice cubes she placed between her thighs against her crotch under a white towel blinding.
Her skorts drenched through, clinging to her tanned thighs, chiselled.
At each serve, each return, each slice she let out a sound I knew from taekwondo.
Osaka, fierce and silent, won by a single tiebreak point.
Neither player acknowledged the other pre- or post-game.
I purchased sweat wristbands for Petra and a postcard for my little one.
By the time we left Paris,
I had driven us along the Seine.
Past the Statue of Liberty,
past the Eiffel Tower,
past Pont Neuf,
past the Louvre.
Debated EUR 18 per hour street-side parking fees with him before leaving the car,
dashing up to Stohrer in Rue Montorgueil for
Vanilla éclair.
Chocolate pie.
He wanted ice cream,
not the queues,
not the waiting.
I wanted iced coffee,
not the Paris prices.
He said, “I’ll make you iced coffee at home.”
At the veggie shop we selected:
baby potatoes,
baby cucumbers,
baby bananas for our little one.
By the time we walked to Les Halles we had 15 minutes of parking left.
I was on the phone with my father’s sister, my guma 小鬼, calling me from Hong Kong, worried about the heat.
He spotted a pretty blonde,
a pink and orange-coloured ice cream trolley, spoked chrome wheels sparkling.
No customers.
No queue.
No strawberry.
He chose his go-to favourite lemon,
tapped his phone against the card reader and said something to the blonde.
He looked at me with puppy eyes and said:
“Sorry, 7 EUR for a cone and a single scoop.”
I smiled at him.
I scolded him.
“Learn to read, BB, Alain Ducasse!”
I licked his cold lemony lips.
“You better enjoy every drop.”
We stopped at Isshin Ramen,
a giant Totoro by the entrance.
I jumped out,
he jumped behind the wheel.
I slurped and gobbled down a bowl of noodles,
jumped back behind the wheel.
By the time we got back home,
we’d driven 7 hours.
Lightning, thunder, rain over Tours ended the heat wave.
His left hand on my right thigh,
me interrogating him about
old gas boilers,
heat pumps,
electric water heaters,
water storage,
bathroom remodels,
an offuro,
the neighborhood,
stables, taekwondo, jazz dance for our babies,
belly dancing for me,
renovation budgets and zoning.
I said,
“You need to keep talking to me.
I’m driving.
You need to keep me awake.”
He said,
“You need to make wontons with your girls again.
Play mahjong again.
I've added a new Mahjong set, Backgammon and Mastermind to your shopping cart.”
By the time we got to bed,
he had scrubbed a burnt pan the kids left on the stove.
We’d emptied the dishwasher.
He’d cooked pasta at 3am.
Fed me.
Held me.
In the morning, I walked into our kitchen in a bra and flowing paisley dress, my tattooed tiger crouching on my shoulder blade.
He greeted me with fresh espresso poured over coffee ice cubes, topped with vanilla ice cream.
