romantic with her.
“Then how is it that you remembered me? That night, the first night we met in your home?”
“It’s hard to say, sometimes the smallest incident remains clear, yet some other times I can’t remember the names of people I know well, and sometimes I can’t remember what I had been doing for many years—”
“Have you also forgotten her name?”
“Margarethe!” You squeeze her hand and say, “Memories are depressing, let’s talk about something else.”
“Not necessarily, there are also happy memories, especially of people one has loved.”
“Of course, but it’s best to forget what is in the past.” You, in fact, can’t think of the girl’s name and can, instead, only recall pain. Her voice and face have also become blurred.
“Will you forget me, too?”
“When you’re so vibrant, so full of life, how could I forget you?” You look at her eyes under her thick eyelashes, trying to change the subject.
“But her, you’re not saying that she wasn’t?” She doesn’t avoid your eyes and looks directly at you as she says, “She was so young, delicate, lovely, and so sexy. She was sitting right in front of me, clutching her skirt around her legs, the front of her dress hung low and she clearly had nothing on underneath. It was in China, at that time, so it left a very deep impression.”
“When you were knocking on the door, we were probably making love.” Your lips part in a smile, it is best not to be too serious.
“You’ll forget me just the same, and before many years.” She pulls her hand back.
“But this is different, it’s different!” you retort, unable to think of what to say, and not saying anything intelligent.
“For men, it doesn’t matter which woman’s body it is. It’s all the same thing.”
“No!”
But what can you say? Every woman wants to prove she’s different and in that hopeless battle in bed, tries to find love in lust, always thinking that after the physical lust passes something will remain.
In this very fashionable Bar 97 on this little street in Lan Kwai Fong you sit facing her. You are close but there is a small round table between you, and you are trying to catch her eye. Loud rock music is playing, and the howling is in English. White clothing glows in thedark-blue fluorescent lights. The men with ties, mixing drinks behind the counter, and the hostesses are all tall Westerners. Margarethe, dressed all in black, is barely visible except for her bright red lipstick that shines and looks purple in the fluorescent lights. She seems unreal and is utterly stunning.
“Is it simply because I’m a Western woman?” She is staring at you with a slight frown and her voice seems to be coming from far away.
“No, it’s not simply because you’re a Western woman. How can I put it, you’re in every sense a woman whereas she was still a girl.” You seem to be lighthearted and joking.
“How else are we different?” She seems determined to find out everything.
In her unflinching gaze you detect something devious, and say, “She didn’t know how to draw in, she could only give but didn’t know how to enjoy. . . .”
“Of course, the woman would come to know, sooner or later. . . .” She stops looking at you, and her eyelashes, heavy with mascara, lower.
You think of her pulsating body, stiff but yielding, her moistness, her warmth, and her breathlessness, that all arouse your lust, and you fiercely say you’re thinking of her again.
“No!” She cuts you short. “It’s not me you are thinking about but her. You are only seeking compensation from my body.”
“How can you say this, you are truly beautiful!”
“I don’t believe you.” She looks down and turns the glass with the tips of her fingers. This little movement is very seductive. She looks up and smiles, revealing the gully between her breasts that had been blocked by the shadow of her head, and says, “I’m too fat.”
You start to say no but she stops
“Then how is it that you remembered me? That night, the first night we met in your home?”
“It’s hard to say, sometimes the smallest incident remains clear, yet some other times I can’t remember the names of people I know well, and sometimes I can’t remember what I had been doing for many years—”
“Have you also forgotten her name?”
“Margarethe!” You squeeze her hand and say, “Memories are depressing, let’s talk about something else.”
“Not necessarily, there are also happy memories, especially of people one has loved.”
“Of course, but it’s best to forget what is in the past.” You, in fact, can’t think of the girl’s name and can, instead, only recall pain. Her voice and face have also become blurred.
“Will you forget me, too?”
“When you’re so vibrant, so full of life, how could I forget you?” You look at her eyes under her thick eyelashes, trying to change the subject.
“But her, you’re not saying that she wasn’t?” She doesn’t avoid your eyes and looks directly at you as she says, “She was so young, delicate, lovely, and so sexy. She was sitting right in front of me, clutching her skirt around her legs, the front of her dress hung low and she clearly had nothing on underneath. It was in China, at that time, so it left a very deep impression.”
“When you were knocking on the door, we were probably making love.” Your lips part in a smile, it is best not to be too serious.
“You’ll forget me just the same, and before many years.” She pulls her hand back.
“But this is different, it’s different!” you retort, unable to think of what to say, and not saying anything intelligent.
“For men, it doesn’t matter which woman’s body it is. It’s all the same thing.”
“No!”
But what can you say? Every woman wants to prove she’s different and in that hopeless battle in bed, tries to find love in lust, always thinking that after the physical lust passes something will remain.
In this very fashionable Bar 97 on this little street in Lan Kwai Fong you sit facing her. You are close but there is a small round table between you, and you are trying to catch her eye. Loud rock music is playing, and the howling is in English. White clothing glows in thedark-blue fluorescent lights. The men with ties, mixing drinks behind the counter, and the hostesses are all tall Westerners. Margarethe, dressed all in black, is barely visible except for her bright red lipstick that shines and looks purple in the fluorescent lights. She seems unreal and is utterly stunning.
“Is it simply because I’m a Western woman?” She is staring at you with a slight frown and her voice seems to be coming from far away.
“No, it’s not simply because you’re a Western woman. How can I put it, you’re in every sense a woman whereas she was still a girl.” You seem to be lighthearted and joking.
“How else are we different?” She seems determined to find out everything.
In her unflinching gaze you detect something devious, and say, “She didn’t know how to draw in, she could only give but didn’t know how to enjoy. . . .”
“Of course, the woman would come to know, sooner or later. . . .” She stops looking at you, and her eyelashes, heavy with mascara, lower.
You think of her pulsating body, stiff but yielding, her moistness, her warmth, and her breathlessness, that all arouse your lust, and you fiercely say you’re thinking of her again.
“No!” She cuts you short. “It’s not me you are thinking about but her. You are only seeking compensation from my body.”
“How can you say this, you are truly beautiful!”
“I don’t believe you.” She looks down and turns the glass with the tips of her fingers. This little movement is very seductive. She looks up and smiles, revealing the gully between her breasts that had been blocked by the shadow of her head, and says, “I’m too fat.”
You start to say no but she stops
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