I’m single again, should I reeeee or should I be free?
Here’s something I ages ago about a very different breakup in a very different time.
Mosaic took the stage. The lead singer donning a white captain’s cap, his long curly hair puffing out from the sides as he grabbed the mic and saluted the crowd.
“You having a good time tonight? Let’s hear it CHENGDU!” He yelled as the drummer kicked off into a rock rhythm and guitarist cranked up the distortion.
A wave of raw energy swept through the crowd. Those who weren’t sucked into the whirlpool of moshing were dashing to prop up crowd surfers. Others eager just to play a bit of grabass.
There she stood, a scowling island amidst the sea of smiles. I knew no amount of reason would lift her spirits, aside from escaping to somewhere quiet and having “The Talk.” She’d been like this before, not once or twice, but three or four times in the past fourteen days.
I chose the path of least resistance and offered to buy her a beer.
This was foolish on my behalf since she didn’t like to drink, but such preferences are hard for any man with a beer in hand to recognize or remember. There were just a few warm sour-tasting sips in my beer can, so I avoided her glare and left in search of refreshment.
Asahi is much better than any Chinese beer in my opinion; such was a conversation we’d had on her couch, which evolved into debate about Sino-Japanese conflicts, conformity culture, and creativity. All stemming from that satisfying crack of the metal pull-tab.
I thought of the times she kept me up with the whimpering cries of a wounded animal, her weeklong love tainted when she read my Weibo post about graduate school. Or the time she threw a text message tantrum, when I pleaded for “space”. Or my loss of face when she drank a thimbleful of tequila and wound up wailing in Jiong Jiong’s bathroom, the party coming to a halt like a broken needle on a turntable.
Spun, wrapped around a fraying thread of lust, I bought her an ice cream. The concert ended and we took a taxi home. Not a word was spoken in the cab. She sat scrolling through the Weibo feed on her iPhone. I glanced over at pictures of Italian models, milk tea, high heels, dry fried mushrooms. Turning a shoulder, I stared out the window at the shimmering skyline; excavating old memories, dusting off jewels embedded in the time-trued lexicon of “The Talk”.