He woke up even earlier today.
“Do you know what Los Angeles looks like at four in the morning?”
He was only an hour later than Kobe. Call it the time difference between Los Angeles and Hankou, Lin Song thought, forgiving himself as he bathed in the cool, crisp midsummer morning breeze.
The sign of the corner ice cream shop at the mall was lit up day and night, as if determined to adorn the city’s summer nights, which were soon to become scorching hot.
Four young people emerged from a building and said their goodbyes at the intersection. They looked like a group that had just gotten off work. They knew what Wuhan looked like at five in the morning.
Turning from Tangjiadun Road onto the Second Ring Road, the expressway was empty and unobstructed. Lin Song could keep his foot lightly on the accelerator without needing to constantly switch between the brake and the gas. The smooth drive was invigorating.
The newly risen sun squeezed through the gaps between buildings, and Lin Song caught a glimpse of the day’s first rosy glow in his rearview mirror. The city was about to slowly awaken. The azure sky was as clear and transparent as Lin Song’s mood at that moment.
Lin Song opened the front and rear windows on his left a crack, about two fingers wide. Circulating air blew in, unhurried and gentle, feeling exceptionally comfortable.
Perhaps it was too early; a black Mercedes crawled up slowly from the ramp on the right, looking like it hadn’t woken up yet, loitering reluctantly in the slow lane. Lin Song pressed the accelerator and drifted past it.
Suddenly, a man in a white shirt and white pants, carrying a black briefcase, jaywalked across the road just fifty or sixty meters ahead. He quickly switched his foot from the gas to the brake, slowing the car down. He watched the gaunt old man climb over the median into the opposite lane, his mind drifting to the souls of creatures that had been sent on their way on these highways.
The steamers at the bun shop were already full of steam. Lin Song pulled over and parked under the camera of a “No Parking” sign, getting two meat buns, one vegetable bun, and two marinated eggs to go. He had no appetite now, saving them for after he finished his work.
On the north side of Triangle Lake, a girl was out for a morning run.
Lin Song hadn’t run in over two weeks. His lats were aching faintly, and the doctor’s advice was to rest until he had fully recovered before exercising again. The older he got, the more Lin Song listened to his doctor.
The radio host wasn’t on the air yet; the station was playing a pre-made playlist.
Forgetting him is to forget everything, It’s to cast away all direction, to have lost myself. Forgetting him is to forget all joy…
It was the second song from side A of Teresa Teng’s first Cantonese album, recorded forty-five years ago—one of the many beautiful love songs written by the great Wong Jim.
It was immediately followed by another.
You and I are all mortal, born into this world, Toiling all day long, without a moment’s rest…
This was truly an old-fashioned radio station. The old songs it replayed often struck a chord deep within the rings of Lin Song’s years.
He had actually been invited to a lunch gathering by a not-so-close friend, a warm invitation which he had politely declined.
From Hankou to Hanyang, from Hanyang to Wuchang, and from Wuchang to North Hankou. On the drive home from North Hankou, Lin Song felt mentally drained. The lane lines on the road seemed to blur before his eyes. A motorcycle driving parallel to him was going 75 km/h, which made Lin Song nervous—it wasn’t an electric scooter, it had a yellow Wuhan license plate on its tail. He spotted a gap, merged into the slowest lane, and followed the car in front.
By the time he got home, he had been on the go for over seven hours without a break. He gulped down the rest of the cold tea in his kettle and fell asleep in his reclining chair.
After dinner, Lin Song planned to go to the supermarket just before closing to buy a discounted watermelon. But to his disappointment today, none of the watermelons were on sale. Even a pre-cut half melon had its price increased by 15%. He lingered for a long time between the watermelon and beer aisles before deciding, What the hell, a little extra for something fresh and sweet is worth it.
Lin Song went home with half a watermelon and a six-pack of discounted Budweiser. He mused that he should switch from 95-octane to 92-octane gas from now on. The “Spare Tire Car Talk” show said you should use whatever octane rating is recommended on the fuel cap. He had specifically checked it when he parked, and it said “92-octane or higher unleaded gasoline.” A penny saved is a penny earned.
The small Thai seafood noodle shop at the east entrance of the mall had been closed for over two months. Their slogan was still on the glass wall: “We don’t rush time, we only rush for freshness.” Lin Song remembered the place had been open for about seven months. He had eaten there once and gotten takeout for his son, Xiao Lin, once. After he had his taste of something new, the shop had closed for good. The owner had fled in disarray, abandoning tables, chairs, pots, and pans in the dark, shuttered space.
There are always a few days in a year when one’s heart is unsettled, when the sight of a crescent moon feels heart-wrenchingly sorrowful. But still, Lin Song was grateful to God for this moment, for having watermelon and beer.