MUCH IS MISSING

It had been a while since I saw the woman with the nicely sculpted head and elegant hands, so I went to New Sandalwood Island (新檀島) for dinner yesterday evening. Having eaten jook and a yautiu the previous day, plus some crackers and Cheddar cheese late at night, I realized that both health and sanity required vegetables and hot sauce.
I think she likes me; she's very kind. But that may be just a gentleness to her, and I shall probably never find out.
How does one approach the opposite gender? And if I did so, what would I say? What, in fact, do I actually know about her?

Life would be so much easier if people came with a series of warning lights above their heads. One to indicate the random possibilities, and another to indicate whether or not there is anything in common. My Cantonese ability is limited enough that conversation may not be the best way to tell, and while I am fluent in English and Dutch, I'm just not fit to flirt in those either.
Life is a crapshoot at the best of times.
And my hand is missing the Joker.

Besides, middle-aged men do well not to read too much into things. We've reached the years where we can assume that well-brought up people who are half our age will treat us with a certain amount of courtesy, and we must respond accordingly. Which means NOT startling the crap out of them with unexpected forwardness or pushing any unpredictable envelopes. Doing so upsets the societal apple cart.
It would be so much better if they were to surprise us.
Unlikely, and a mere pipe dream, nevertheless.
We're easily tickled in our senescence.
Ridiculously optimistic, too.
Maturity means nuts.

Didn't you know?

.........

So how was dinner?

有好食物、好氛圍、同一個靚女；改善啲, 站喺我嘅立場, 係無可能嘅！
[Rather nice, thank you.]


Afterwards I wandered over to Portsmouth Square (花園角) with a pipe.
Smokers aren't allowed into San Francisco parks anymore (the world will end if we enter), so I stayed outside, on Fa Yuen Street (花園街), looking in. I saw something which I should never mention to my ex, as she had a rather unhappy childhood. I would not want to make her sad.

A mother and her two little girls wandered past. The adult had a kvetching tone to her voice, and seemed horribly impatient. This is what Cantonese moms often sound like, and the best way to tell what it really means is by the reaction of the children at whom the bellyache is directed.
Those two tykes seemed quite happy.
And it soon became apparent that the woman did indeed love her children very much; she had bought them both ice cream pops, and happily helped them play on the climbing bars in the kiddies' play area. From my vantage point I could see the shapes moving around, the little ones wearing jackets of the same cheery hue as the flowering plums nearby, the mother in somewhat plainer clothes, and I heard the joyful squeals.
They were there for over fifteen minutes.

I left when it was no longer light.

My ex-girlfriend's mother hated her while she was a child, and always begrudged her any happiness. It would be unkind to describe this scene to her. She's in her forties now, and though she hides it, she is still wounded.


Maturity means keeping quiet.



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