Apologies to My Censor by Mitch Moxley

few times in the corridor without speaking. We each told colleagues our versions of the story, and we each thought the other was in the wrong.
    Midweek, at lunchtime, Rob and I passed each other on the sidewalk outside China Daily . We stopped and Rob smiled.
    â€œI just wanted to say . . . sorry,” he said.
    I was shocked. I didn’t think he was capable of apologizing. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m sorry, too.”
    â€œGive me a hug, mate.”
    We hugged it out right there on the sidewalk. Rob said he would make it up to me on the weekend . . . by buying a gram of coke.
    On Saturday night, we went out to Suzy Wong’s, dipping in and out of the bathroom to snort Rob’s peace offering. As Rob hit on a Chinese model at our table, I looked around the bar and spotted Julia, the Korean-Russian. I stood up immediately. I approached her at the bar and reminded her that we’d met the weekend before. Her smile was wide and beautiful. It lit up the room, and I was intimidated. I took a deep breath, hoped that Rob’s makeup present was masking my nerves, and asked her if she wanted to go for a drink sometime.
    â€œSure,” she said.
    â€œSure?”
    â€œYeah, let’s go for a drink. Let me give you my number.”
    We exchanged phone numbers, my coke-strained heart beating furiously. I thanked her and returned to the table with Rob and his model.
    â€œWho was that?” Rob asked as I sat down.
    â€œThis girl I met last weekend.”
    â€œWhere’s she from?”
    â€œShe’s Korean but from Russia.”
    â€œHmm,” he said. “Krussian.”
    I went out for dinner with Julia, who would forever be known among my friends at China Daily as the Krussian, the following week at an Indian restaurant near her apartment in Wudaokou, a university neighborhood in northwest Beijing. It was awkward at first; she looked lovely, and I was nervous. At first we had little to talk about and I thought she wasn’t interested in me. She ordered Sprite—a bad sign. Good first dates should always include alcohol, I reasoned. The dinner was slow, and as I paid for the bill, I thought that perhaps this was a dead end.
    On the walk home, I asked her what she usually did on weekends.
    â€œGo dancing,” she said.
    â€œYou like dancing?”
    â€œI love dancing.”
    â€œThat’s too bad. I hate dancing.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I’m usually the tallest guy in the bar. When I dance, I feel like everybody’s staring at me. Plus, I’m a terrible dancer. I move like this.”
    I started doing an awkward robotic dance, pumping my fists up and down. She laughed.
    â€œYou are a bad dancer,” she said. Her cheeks were dimpled and rosy when she laughed, and I thought she was adorable.
    We had dinner the next week, and the following Friday I went out with her and her friends. She wore a slim black and white dress, and I barely let her out of my sight. We went to a Latin club, and she even got me dancing a little. Before long, we were kissing in the corner of the club.
    She came to my house that night, and my winter doldrums began to lift.
    A ll of a sudden life at China Daily didn’t seem so bad. I tackled new feature assignments, pitched a few more freelance stories, and began to focus as best I could on learning Chinese. I met Ms. Song twice a week at my apartment and attended the two free classes she taught at China Daily . I even started learning Chinese characters. It was slow and painful, but at least I was making an effort.
    But for every China high, there’s a China low. After a few weeks, I was back to the Bad China Days. Beijing was cold in late December, and after seeing each other at least once a week for close to two months, Julia went away for vacation. I would have to work throughout the holidays.
    On Christmas morning I sat at my desk, staring blankly at my computer screen and thinking about