The waiter places identical plates of sashimi, sushi and rolls in front of us.
His chopsticks transfer his salmon to my plate,
I place my portion of tuna on his.
I pour him tea and wine.
I stir wasabi into his soy sauce.
I ask him: "Are you full?"
We always sit side by side at the bar counter,
ever since he took me to Tokyo Joe,
back home in Hong Kong.
His left hand on my right thigh,
my leg pressing into his.
By the time we moved to Lisbon we had three daughters,
my youngest not yet one, my C-section still healing.
Unrushed days shared just between me and him are rare.
We walk through Chiado, past the world’s oldest bookshop,
past the copper figures on the bench and the man busking beside them,
then toward the Brazilian brasserie where I slip inside to pee while he has a whiskey at the bar.
At the lookout in Santa Catarina we see the river and the rooftops below.
Then we drop back down toward Avenida da Liberdade.
By the time we reach JNcQUOI
I remember what it was like,
when it was just us,
hanging out in Mong Kok and Kowloon,
finding phở and Japanese places tucked into malls and side streets.
The DJ drops Sade.
The bartender hands me a drink I didn’t order, but it’s exactly what I want.
The oysters and sashimi arrive with lemon wedges cut too perfectly to be random.
The women shimmer.
They flirt.
They flick their hair.
They angle their shoulders toward him like dancers who forgot the stage.
One of them touches his forearm.
Another leans close, hand on hip, smile loaded.
I don’t interrupt.
Because I feel his body; under his shirt, behind his smile: tighten.
His cock is swelling.
His breath gets shallow.
And I let it happen.
