MAF (Mid-Autumn Festival)

Just a week ago I had switched apartments with a girl and then lived two tiers further down the hill. That was why I had to climb a little more of these slopes crunchily carpeted with red, brown and orange leaves everyday now. New residence was unexpectedly comfortable except, maybe, for a droning noise that continued on daily till midnight. The origin of the noise was a gigantic steam emitter pipe, property of the restaurant next door, installed almost right beneath my windows. I didn't mind the emitter terribly though, for its image was coupled with a fragrance of barbecued meat loaves and bread. And I dared say it'd improve heating during winter. Therefore the loveliness of the windows and all the scenery outside was unspoilt. From the windows, the restaurant's terrace and a corner of a leaf-littered carpark were just visible. Beside these, there were lines of trees, through which I was sure the first glimmer of spring would shine onto my room, when they start to grow hazy with leaves again. The path at the back of the trees led right down to the gorges, over which the moon hung. I couldn't hear the hum of the gorges above the drone of the steam pipes. But I felt as though I could. I couldn't see the overhanging moon. But it was there, steadily growing colder and brighter, as the day of mid-autumn drew near.

There was going to be a celebration held this year by the Chinese Student Association. The idea was a tour on the Cayuga Lake, with much eating of mooncakes and appreciation of the moon. Despite the exhaustion with recent house-moving I promised my friends I'd go. Returning from campus at 6, I contemplated warming up the second half of lunch packaged from HK, the Chinese restaurant in Collegetown. Then I realised the grave mistake I made, whose consequences I hadn't a clear notion, but which I'd still dreaded for. The mistake of forgetting the key while living alone. Landlords had gone home and I hadn't been in a hurry to find out the caretaker's number right after I moved here. Panic struck like on the other occasion when I was trapped in the bathroom of my previous apartment by a faulty latch. After I took deep breathes and lifted the latch with a hairpin, I narrowed my eyes and congratulated on my own ability to pull myself out of a quagmire. So I moved. The bathroom door latch made up my resolution to stay clear from the person whom I was calling right now, while staring blankly at the corridor of the dorm-styled one-bedroom apartments. M wasn't home. I could just run up two flights of wooden stairs to check it out for sure. Maybe check it out just for once. Once wouldn't hurt. I might have wanted to, but my fingers were doing something else. They dialled Kat's number.

"Hellooo!" Kat was drinking again.

"I just wondered if M's with you." I said, voice surprisingly smooth and oily.

"Yaah.. he's... doing some physics homework. He just came to do some homework. Is that ok?" her voice rose shrilly. I had always liked the natural deepness of her voice better.

"I mean... I got locked out. I just wonder if I can get his help to open the doors for me." A tone of demure helplessness came out without much effort, and I felt myself in front of the camera of an epic drama. I was sickened and the objective behind the locked door, the remainders from lunch was already out of the question.

"OOh! You got locked out! Sure! He must come and help you. I'll get him to come and help you... you know what, jy," Kat started crying at this moment. "You've always been a good girl... you're a really good girl... I'm so sorry..."

We did remember to say goodbye after much scrambling in the background. Shortly M arrived with his lock-picking tools. He stooped and worked while I frowned severely at the mess I made. The door opened, he looked at me and said, as if to a child, "Ok?"; then he pinched his lips and gave a brief nod, and turned and went. I had but the briefest moment to look beggingly into his eyes, and then his back disappearing down the corridor. I was reminded of sedentary schooling days in Singapore, when I looked at the back of my dad in this manner whenever he went abroad on business trips, leaving me alone with mum. Each of his return was a celebration. Each of his departure desperation. The desperation of seeing a knife plunging while having no way of stopping it. I could only watch it plunge and scorge out a bloodied piece of my past, leaving behind the suffering of nostalgia.

I was going to be the one who'd leave first. But M somehow was. And on the deck of the motor boat that night on the lake, where we were blown stiff by the wind while waiting for clouds to dissipate, there was no moon.