8:45 pm. Dave comes home. His neck hurts. He kisses Mayling, who is watching TV on the sofa with her arms around her knees. She kisses him back, but in a distracted sort of way. She is concentrating on a documentary about the Roman Colosseum. Dave makes a comment about the kitchen looking good. Mayling mumbles agreement to the TV. Dave takes his dinner out of the large titanium fridge: black bean ribs, his favourite. But he’s too tired to think about how to work the new stove or the microwave or hunt for utensils. He could ask Mayling, but she’d just shout instructions, and he’d say What? Where? She would then have to get up, leaving the Roman Colosseum, and, going to the kitchen, heat up his dinner and find him utensils with a faster than usual efficiency that would make him feel nervous and guilty. So instead, Dave sits at the cinderblock island and eats the ribs cold with his hands.

Later, when Mayling is asleep:

10-02-02

11:30 pm (GMT)

Dear Yi,

Sorry about your grandmother. That’s really shit.

(Delete)

10-02-02

11:30 pm (GMT)

Dear Yi,

So sorry about your grandmother. I’m glad you feel you can talk to me about it.

(Too touchy feely. Also a bit creepy. Delete)

10-02-02

11:31 pm (GMT)

Hello!

Do you even know who you’re writing to?

(Do I have to be such a wanker? Delete)

10-02-02

11:31 pm (GMT)

Dearest Yi,

I had a shit day at work today and it’s all because of your fucking morbid email.

(Delete)

10-02-02

11:32 pm (GMT)

Yi,

I’m fine, thanks. Sorry to hear about your Popo. How are you doing? Tell me more if you want. Dave

(Send)

Dave’s cousin Pete and Pete’s fiancée Pauline must have spent many fraught evenings rehearsing their thank you speech, which they eventually delivered in the summer of 1999 to their five hundred and thirty-two guests in the ballroom of the Hong Kong Marriott Hotel. After the applause, a young woman in a pink Rolling Stones t-shirt stood up in the middle of the room and thrust her champagne glass in the direction of the stage, causing nearby guests to duck for cover. With much feeling, she proclaimed her admiration for the couple in slurry Cantonese. “You are such a beautiful example of mutual love and respect. How you—sorry, I didn’t catch your name, sir—”

“Uh, Pete,” said Pete.

“How you, Pete, look at her like she’s your queen. And you, Mrs. Pete, you look at him like he’s a fucking gladiator…You guys should finish your champagne, get the hell out of here, and fuck each other’s fucking brains out…” She drained the glass and held it above her head like a trophy.