Page 37 of Don't Point at the Moon

“At first, yeah. But then, not so much.”

“Thought we’d try the little coffee shop around the block. My haunt on a Sunday morning. They serve the best range of international breakfasts and pastries.”

“Cool.”

Mitchell heard Zane open the bathroom door.

“Tommy’s dope,” came Zane’s voice from the doorway. “He’s the main character, you know? Said you don’t hang out much.”

“We’re very different people.”

“Shame. He’s into you.”

The remark blindsided Mitchell, and he looked up into Zane’s mischievous grin.

“Is that what he told you?”

“No, but the way he takes the piss and you retaliate is better than standup. And he’s more relaxed around you, more like his real self, I guess. Not like when he meets his other friends and becomes a kind of on-duty Tommy, if you know what I mean?”

Mitchell wasn’t sure he did.

“You picked all that up in one evening?”

“What can I say? I pay attention. He said me and him can hang out when you’re busy. Is that going to be okay?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Cool.”

When the bathroom door closed, Mitchell smiled to himself. Tommy had made Zane think their hanging out was his idea, which worked better. Zane wouldn’t feel manipulated.

* * * *

Just before nine-thirty, they headed down the stairs to Mitchell’s apartment, and as Zane walked on ahead, he plucked a red envelope from his letterbox. Mrs Lau’s door was firmly closed, so he thrust the card into his pocket and caught up with Zane.

They strolled the already busy streets of Kennedy Town, fierce sun and humidity warming their skin. Unlike the previous Sunday, grey clouds filled the horizon in the distance, a sure sign of rain later in the day. Mitchell enjoyed watching Zane—perked up after his shower—absorb the local hustle and bustle during their short walk along the road bordering the harbour. Mitchell had been wrong about him. Once he opened up, he had a lot to say. He just needed time to thaw out.

Mitchell opened the café door to a mix of ice-cold air-conditioning and the scent of freshly ground coffee. A server squeezed them into a free table at the window, waiting patiently for them to settle before taking their order.

“Now, before we eat,” said Mitchell. “I have something for you.”

Zane looked apprehensive, but Mitchell smiled, brought his hand out of his pocket and let a set of keys clatter onto the table.

“Keys to the castle. Yours for the duration. Now you can come and go as you please.”

“Oh,” said Zane, picking them up. “Cool.”

“Now that you’re here, let’s talk about some of the more unusual things I think you should consider doing or seeing. Things you can easily do on your own. You’ll have plenty of time during the week while I’m working.”

“Can I take notes on my phone?”

“Of course.”

Zane pulled out his phone and tapped away as Mitchell went through his suggestions, which included a visit to the Man Mo Taoist temple on Hollywood Road and a stroll along the nearbyCat Street Market, getting the bus to various beaches along the south of the island and riding the electric tram from beginning to end, all the way along the north side of the island from Kennedy Town to Shau Kei Wan in the east.

“We hit the Mid-Levels escalator last night, but you’re likely to go there again, and when you do, keep an eye out for a place called Rednaxela Terrace. Grab a shot of the street sign on your phone. There’s an urban myth that the Chinese street sign painter at the time reversed the name Alexander, which is actually an easier mistake to make than we Westerners appreciate. Unlike English, written Chinese is pretty versatile and can be written vertically or horizontally, and can read from right to left.”

“Cool. I’ll add that one to my original list.”

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