I called you Tsubomi when we first met, when spring was young, and the cherry blossoms still clenched their fists. Tsubomi—蕾, a bud, something waiting to bloom. You had a way of standing, arms folded behind your back, as if holding onto a secret. We sat on a stone bench, drinking amazake from paper cups, the warmth pressing against our palms. When you handed me my cup, your fingers trembled slightly, and I told myself it was from the wind. I called you Hana in the summer, when the cicadas screamed and the air smelled of wet pavement. Hana—花, flower, something in full bloom. We sat on your balcony, peeling the skin off peaches, the juice slipping down our wrists. You held my chin with two fingers and wiped a drop from my lip. The night was thick, our yukata clinging to the sweat on our backs. I told you, you are so beautiful when you laugh. You said, I laugh the same way every season. In autumn, I called you Kaze, when the persimmons …

Alone she sat alone, surrounded by all the world shouting buy-buy in the by-and-by from the black and white television, the three hundred twenty-nine channels clicking on one by one on, lasting five seconds, four, set on a timer that would occasionally hold for a count of six, then fall back to a three-second pause, so the next cycle, better behaving, would fast catch back up, but it never did. She felt beyond practice of use herself, but grateful redundancy in more than word alone. The blue chimes jim-jammed in the holiday chill due to the window open. The widow from Toledo told herself she admired the hot air. “It tries so hard, itself sweaty e’en indoors, dontcha know,” and Jim poured her another ice-popping fizzy drink. Her tongue was always hot from saved-up chatter. She lived for one. “You don’t have another doctor’s appointment ’til next month, Mama, so the diabetes should be in arrears or at least in check.” He laughed. “A check shall be in the mail!” “How is your di-a-be-tisss, son?” …

“Who are you?’ The gentleman had demanded abruptly. He appeared as though he could have been framed forever with one hand in his suit pocket, a pipe balanced between his lips. Not having expected to be addressed so directly, Kaya looked around, assuming it was a case of a mistaken identity. Looking at him again he asked, “You! Boy! Who are you?” Stumbling on his words he blurted, “I’m Kaya. Who are you?” “I’m the train manager.” He calmly replied. “Why are you sitting in third class then?” “Don’t you know it is rude to ask questions like that! But since you ask, I am hiding from my wife. She wouldn’t dare step foot in a 3rd class carriage, so she’ll never think to look in here. Perhaps she will even assume that I’ve alighted the train at an earlier stop and try to pursue me, or someone like me, through the streets of Kayseri!” He chuckled at the thought. “What do you mean, someone like me?” he gently inquired. “Ah well, aren’t we all …

Life starts with the urge to be swallowed. Then follows the want to pulse, then the need to hurt, to kick to prove our existence. Around the seventh week we grow the most crucial parts of our eyes and by the thirty-ninth – we learn to scream. It’s been plenty of time since I first used my voice and I think my voice box is starting to rust, because I haven’t used it since. Not the way I should anyway. “Hi.” The Jacobite Train rolled straight through my life. Your eyes make me want to be swallowed again; dark like abysses. More stars twinkle in the right one than in the left. It’s hard to differentiate between “Hi.” (with the intention of making an acquaintance) and “Hi.” (with the intention of absolute devotion) when you look at irises like that. So void of colour and yet in the most striking of shades. And then I see all the hypotheticals of us in other lives, right on the greyish whites of your eyes. The one where …

When I see the map of China, for some strange reason, I am reminded of Madeleine de Scudery’s Map of Tenderness. In 1653, this lady drew a map of an imaginary land that represents the path to love. All the place names on De Scudery’s map refer to a mood or an emotion. On the map, there is a lake called The Lake of Indifference. It is certainly Xi Hu, the West Lake, in Hangzhou. This body of water makes the city unique. It seems that nothing can be done without the imposing presence of this lake. Paradoxically, being a constant feature in the city makes it, indeed, indifferent. I walk in the historic area of the city near Nan Shan Lu. It is infested with tourists. There is a mosque of the Hui people and a monument dedicated to printing. In the West, few know that printing was born here before Gutenberg. For a foreigner, except for Beijing, Xi’an, and Lhasa, all Chinese cities, especially the centers, are pretty much the same. Tall skyscrapers, …