Why am I thinking of her? Shoulder-length hair, longish face, unremarkable features, skinnier than thin and taller than I: do not be mistaken; I have no romantic intention. She had a ring on her finger, a sign that she might be married, though my intuition told me otherwise. A chance meeting, the briefest of encounters, over three days, and she found her way into my diary. On an evening like this, the air chilly and the weather cold, would she be reading her Chinese novels or Japanese manga, or drawing, or watching TV, or simply doing nothing? Or would she be browsing my books or watching my DVD? Beyond a certain age, can’t a man and a lady simply be friends, without cares or concerns, without reservations, so that we could have coffee together, watch movies, view exhibitions, shop, exchange ideas, take long walks, et cetera et cetera, without worrying about whether we would be a part of each other or apart from each another?
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