dance floor
Night. Half of Hong Kong is asleep and the other half is on the dance floor, moving to the beat of a European artist whose name everyone will forget the morning after. Hung dances close to Sue, so close. They are so close that Sue can let her lips land occasionally on Hung's skin and she won't mind.
The momentary touch of her lips to the back of Hung's wrist, her palm, her arm, it's how she makes love to her.
Sue understands that Hung could not love her the way she loves her. Sometimes she forgets this and when she sees her looking at men passing by their table, she feels that she is with the worst kind of man there is. But then she remembers that Hung doesn't love her the way she loves her.
She wonders often why it is that Hung invites her to have dinner with her at some fancy new restaurant, or dance the night away in some overhyped bar. Sue knows that Hung is as square as squares can get, but she often mistakes this willingness to step out of the box as a sign of love, which it is not.
Hung doesn't love her, she only wants to be friends with her; which is the cruelest thing anyone has done to her. But they always look at each other in the eyes and often times it is so intense that Sue is convinced that somewhere in the depths of Hung's playful stare is a sign of love.
And Hung's stare now is as deep as any stare can get. Her hair usually held back as to not obstruct her view is let loose and they add ten folds to Sue's love for her. And Sue understands that some mistakes you never do again and some you try again because this time it might turn out right, so she kisses her.
Her kiss is as playful as their stares and as loose as Hung's hair. And the response she gets isn't cold, it warm and slick like Hung's tongue in her mouth, tough and soft at the same time like Hung's hand under her shirt.
So now Sue isn't as sure as she was when she began this dance; maybe Hung does love her after all.