My first visit to Bali was with him,
the man I met years before,
each married to different people,
living different lives.
Weeks after our first date at Spring Moon,
the night I stayed and never left,
we ate and drank champagne
on a Cathay flight out of Hong Kong.
The cutlery ice cold like the butter on my plate.
By the time we got to Bali,
I had moved my furniture and belongings into his flat,
left half empty after his first marriage,
shown him to my relos in Hong Kong during Chinese New Year,
hidden him in a hotel room in Canberra,
less than a year after my first wedding.
In our duplex at the InterCon at Jimbaran,
we fucked on the king bed upstairs,
room service downstairs.
Massages on the daybed
in the elevated pavilion by the beach.
After the masseuse left,
my body soft, silky smooth and flowing,
his hand covered by my robe,
I held his fingers inside me.
We napped there.
We walked the streets of Ubud,
sharing satay and krupuk amongst lotus ponds and terraces of rice.
At the hotel in Ubud,
we soaked in a bathtub large enough for us both.
I gave him my body fully.
Every passage.
I posed topless for his camera,
swam topless in the hotel pool.
We ate late.
Creamy mushroom pasta for me.
Commentary on what I eat,
my shape,
my weight,
for him.
By the next time we returned to Bali,
I was full and pregnant with our second daughter.
In Bali, my body stretched
to hold her,
to receive him.
By the next time we were in Bali,
I had booked a private villa.
For me.
For him.
Our nanny.
Two girls, fourteen months apart.
A loud, alive, splashing, running cackle of girls.
My father, their Gung Gung, and my stepmother, their Abu.
Different years.
Different villas.
Different family constellations from Hong Kong and Australia,
my cackle getting taller, louder, smarter.
Bikini bottoms turned to swimsuits.
Pizza turned to sushi.
Ice cream remained constant.
We returned to Bali,
for family,
for work,
for fundraising,
for rest,
for flat whites and Aussie breakfasts at KuDeTa.
When it was just him, me, and the kids,
we’d have breakfast and leave the girls supervised at the Trans Resort,
run by an old friend, Alex.
I’ve known him since my wedding at Hong Kong Disneyland,
when he made the longest, most generous, rambling speech
at lunch the day before.
He and my husband go back much longer.
Alex would arrange the kids’ club
for Petra and Padme,
for art and swimming,
for micro braids finished with seashells,
to give me and my husband time off.
Time for lunch at KuDeTa.
Time for lotus ponds and art galleries in Ubud.
Time to fuck and try for another.
The last time I was in Bali,
I travelled alone from Porto,
to Canberra and back,
to say goodbye to my father.
He died two years ago,
from a fall after losing his way to dementia.
In one year he wilted,
from Gung Gung, full of mischief,
to infant.
I ate alone across the street from the hotel,
Chinese food with wok hey,
like my father’s cooking,
like Chinatown in San Francisco.
By the last time I was at KuDeTa,
alone,
a young ripped man invited me
for drinks,
for dancing,
for sex.
Remembering I had my tubes tied, I said,
“I’m married with children. I could be your mother.
Why me?”
“You’re hot,” he said.
