It reminds me of many things. In fact, I used to have short hair like Faye Wong, like a tomboy. As her in Wong Kar-Wai’s Chungking Express.
That man, he took pictures of me lying on the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge, and in a taxi late at night, when the whole blaze of red light from the side of the road hit my face through the window of the car.
He showed me the picture – my face was buried in the red light and shade, expressing a trace of unease and trance. Then I heard him muttering, “王菲 (Faye Wong).” With a non-standard Mandarin accent. I didn’t speak up, just smiled.
And then there was one day, with that unique buzzing belonging to an old air conditioner that echoed in the dim small room, he suddenly asked me, “Have you ever seen Chungking Express?” I looked at his face, but he was not looking at me; he just bowed his head and was busy cleaning up the tablet on his desktop, the golden hair slightly covering his eyes, “I really had a crush on her at that time.” Then he smiled, like some kind of self-teasing.
At that time, I didn’t know how to respond, and I didn’t know whether there was any connection between the two sentences that I didn’t respond to, throughout the time, indicating my delusional love.
I suddenly thought of his vision. Did he see the gold? In those blue pupils. Just like in Chungking Express, the piece of gold in front of the bar, intertwined with the blue and green, like a dream.
Bitter mint.
Smells always pop out endlessly, breaking up all my conception.
Today is a bitter mint scent. The bitter lead stayed on my cuff, pocket, and my palms. It also stayed on the tip of the pencil. Was it kept?
I do feel bitter.
Am I really like Faye Wong?
But I don’t have the key that can enter the heart of the one I love, and I will never have it.
I never said I recognized that comment.
“I haven’t seen Chungking Express yet,”
“And I’m not the one you love.”
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Written on 2021/01/18