“Chardonnay or Macmillan? Do I sound posh enough?” Rudy asked, in a fake accent.

“Terry, would you read the first paragraph for me?” I tried to copy his imitation.

“You seldom flee from situations, not without staying for a few minutes,” said Rudy, “not without a word.”

Something felt off. No, scratch that. Things had been feeling off since this afternoon, right from my second-round interview at my thirteenth company in the past six months of job hunting. I handed over to the administrative department copies of my qualifications, transcripts, and other papers that reflect my competence. They asked me in English, proceeded with Cantonese, and concluded in Mandarin. Questions followed by answers, polished and rephrased through experience and practice. No follow-ups. No interest in the person I am. The director shook my hand with a grip respectful enough for this brief encounter.

I had lobster ramen with Rudy afterwards, and he had one with a tori paitan soup. Rich and flavourful. The Japanese beer was everything. The writer’s club meeting that followed? It was just, well, off.

“The woman before us asked us to move aside when the street could only fit two people in width. Move where?” I recalled our path before the meeting.

Rudy shuddered and said, “I saw her going in. The lights were too dim for a welcoming occasion.”

“Closed door, no greeting staff, literally no seats other than that narrow space between those men in either burgundy or navy cardigans and leather shoes. Could you feel the force field?” I asked.

“I did not feel comfy either, but you would usually endure things like this for a while before leaving. You just turned around and gestured for me to do the same,” Rudy replied, drawing his finger in circular motion, then shifted into
a running gesture, like what I just did at the bar.

I shook my head and whispered, “So wrong.”

“Not right,” Rudy snickered. “Thirteenth interview?” He asked.

I averted my eyes and sighed. “I can feel it in my guts, no chance. They asked me standard questions, I answered, and they moved on to case studies as if there was nothing more to procedures and protocols. Warmth, passion, visions. Too ideal to exist. I have been thinking through the answerless wait, yet my attempts tumbled into similar patterns: anticipation, preparation and practice, the showdown, the silence… Our paths won’t cross again.”

“You know, I’ve been rooting for you along your every step. Cold, echoless, quiet. The world is like that sometimes,” Rudy had a habit of shoving sweets into his mouth when he was anxious, and even more so for this mortified introvert. He continued with his stuffed cheeks, “whatever happens, you are not walking in circles, and you are most definitely not stagnant. All these
experiences, whether smooth or rough, do not define you as the person you are, but they will become your assets as you move forward.”

I opened my savoury corn snack and had a mouthful.

“Why do I have to work?” Rudy exclaimed. “All this just to sustain side jobs? Sorry, passions.”

“Who are we?” I patted on his shoulders, my fellow reality-hating ally. Perhaps opportunities arise for the right person, whether the chooser or the chosen, when they could harness time.

“The moon tames the tides, indifferent pulls of the resistant waters. It is coming for me, too,” I said.

Rudy paused to think, then responded. “The moon is bound to the dark, yet it shapeshifts; we’re bound to space and time, yet we can change, too. Remember what you wrote here?” He flipped open the first page of the notebook I gave him for his birthday. “Every patch of hard earth is a chance to meander. Feel the velocity, whether swift or slow, then…”

“Morph.”

He nodded and pointed at the sky, “We see a crescent, but its shifting light does not define its shape. It’s all about our perspectives and timing. The moon remains as a sphere, a whole.”