The Yuehui (The Date)

I like sitting by the window in my one-to-one Chinese class, which happens twice weekly in a French patisserie. It allows me to slyly people-watch during frequent moments of distraction.

So imagine, one day, the corner of my eye catching a flash of white frills. I double-take and behold through the glass a young girl striding by, instantly conspicuous amongst the shoddy pedestrians: dressed in a teasing yet pure snowy bridesmaid mini-dress paired with swan-like stilettos, a baby-blue handbag pendent on the crook of her slender frame’s elbow. Feigning obliviousness to the passing oglers, she looks absolutely ridiculous.

Then she’s gone, out of my sight and care. A few minutes later, I look up from my textbook to see her nesting egg-like at the table opposite. This is an opportunity for closer inspection.  Topping the not-so-virginal baptismal outfit is a cascade of black hair, not a strand out of place. Her cosmetically-enlarged irises artificially match the colour of her bag, but not the shape of her eyes, and a scrapeable layer of icing nearly masks ancient evidence of acne devastation on her golf-ball cheeks. Only an explosion of red on her dynamite lips completes the South-Korean flag colour theme.

She nests for an unknown amount of time, until an example of the word I've coincidentally just learnt – a 小鲜肉 (“Little Fresh Meat”) or urban dandy asserts himself on the chair facing hers, not before catching sight of my curious glances and throwing me a cheeky grin. He’s wearing a suit, and that’s about as much as can be said for him. After he brings her a drink, I leave them to it, and go back to trying to concentrate.

Another indefinite amount of time passes, maybe fifteen minutes, during which I only catch them sharing a quiet smirk at me stumbling over some Chinese sentences. Then suddenly they both spontaneously stand up. This abruptness is enough to recapture my attention, and I watch them march out of the patisserie, leaving behind two almost-untouched glasses of caffeinated froth. It’s only at this point that I realise they did not speak a single word to each other for the duration of what I’ll hesitantly describe as their date. Out of the door of the patisserie, as if choreographed, they turn on their heels and without a backward glance, separate in perfectly opposing directions.

Still naïve about modern Chinese society, especially when it comes to young courtship, I consider what I've just observed. Perhaps it was as it seemed; a Little Emperor and a Material Girl trying their luck for the sake of appearances, their overwhelming self-indulgence holding them back from conversing and even eating. Sometimes the Fu’erdai, the Rich Second Generation, make a point of leaving get-togethers early and their food untouched simply to give the impression that they have busy lives and better places to be. His opportunistic grin may have been a boastful indication of the Baifumei he’d bagged (Rich White Beauty), something for his mates and money to salivate over. Or maybe I got it all wrong and it was just a covert business deal. Or table-sharing that didn't quite fulfil expectations. Either way, I’d never seen anything as unromantically surreal.

The departure is so sudden it seems almost purposeful. Half-expecting them to return, I keep an eye on the frappés for about two minutes before swiping hers and sucking it down. Well, someone had to get lucky, right?