The clatter of the yum cha restaurant faded into the dense, humid blanket of the Hong Kong afternoon. My parents, having thoroughly appraised and, to their minds, approved of Darcy, made their excuses—something about the wet market calling and the need to rest. They melted into the human river of the pavement, leaving Darcy and me standing on the curb, suspended in the sudden quiet between one form of chaos and the next.
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Without a word, a shared, unspoken agreement passed between us. We turned and climbed the steep, narrow stairs of a waiting tram, its wooden-slatted seats and open windows a relic from a slower time. We found a seat at the front of the upper deck, the breeze from the open window doing little more than stirring the thick, soupy air. The tram lurched into motion with a familiar groan, a slow, rocking beast navigating the canyon of buildings.
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The world outside was a watercolour painting left in the rain. The neon signs of Causeway Bay bled their colours into the grey haze, and the throngs of people on the sidewalks moved with a liquid, sluggish quality. The humid summer air pressed against my skin, a tangible, warm weight.
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Darcy was quiet for a long time, just watching the city slide past. The earnest, well-mannered boy from the tea house was gone, replaced by someone more pensive, more exposed.
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“I wished we could sing right now,” he said, his voice soft, almost lost beneath the rumble of the tram and the city’s symphony of horns and chatter.
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I smiled, assuming he was recalling our karaoke disaster. “What, another duet? I’m not sure the other passengers could survive it.”
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“No,” he said, turning to look at me. His eyes were serious. “I mean, I wish we could sing our wedding vows. We could have our wedding here.” He gestured around the worn, charming interior of the tram car. “On top of a tram.”
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I let out a short, startled laugh. It was so absurd, so utterly Darcy. “You’re insane.”
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“If the feeling is right,” he continued, undeterred, his gaze intense, “I would like to propose to you. And sing for you, on this tram, right now.”
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A jolt, equal parts panic and a strange, fluttering warmth, shot through me. “No,” I said, my voice firmer than I intended. “Please don’t. Don’t sing.” The thought of his terrible, heartfelt singing punctuating a marriage proposal in front of a car full of unimpressed commuters was a social apocalypse I couldn’t fathom.
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He didn’t look hurt, just resigned, as if he’d expected that answer. The tram dinged its bell, a sharp, metallic sound that seemed to underscore the moment.
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“And you know…” I started, my voice trailing off, the words feeling inadequate.
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“Yes, I know,” he finished for me, his tone gentle. “You have a friend to take care of. Bensimon.” He said the name not with jealousy, but with a quiet acceptance, as if stating a simple, unchangeable fact of the universe. “But at this moment,” he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me, “I’m hopelessly dedicated to you.”
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The phrase was cheesy, lifted from some 80s love song, but in his mouth, on this rocking tram, it felt raw and terrifyingly sincere. It was a feeling stripped of all his usual artifice—the food theory, the clumsy charm. This was just a stark, emotional truth, laid bare.
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“Please don’t,” I whispered back, my own resolve crumbling. The humid air felt suddenly suffocating. “I already am caring for another.” It was true. Bensimon was a constant, a quiet pull on my loyalty. His was a world of refined taste and intellectual melancholy, a world I felt responsible for, as if my presence was a small anchor in the storm of his own thoughts. It was a different kind of bond, less flashy than Darcy’s, but deep and complicated.
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“But you still want someone to romantically care for you, don’t you?” Darcy asked, his insight cutting through my defenses with unnerving accuracy. “And I know you have a friend you have to care for. I know you would never just leave a guy who you have bonded with before. I respect that about you.” He said it with such conviction that I felt a lump form in my throat. He saw my loyalty not as a rejection of him, but as a testament to my character. “But you know,” he added, his voice softening further, “I am always here for you. I want you to know that.”
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The tram swayed around a corner, and for a moment, our shoulders pressed together. The contact was electric. I looked away, out the window at the blur of people and shops, feeling utterly torn. Here was Darcy, offering a loud, messy, vibrant kind of love, a wedding on a tram, a life sung out of tune but with boundless enthusiasm. And there was Bensimon, a quieter, more profound connection, a shared understanding that felt like home, but a home that sometimes felt more like a sanctuary than a living, breathing space.
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We rode in silence for another block, the tension between us a living thing. Then, Darcy shifted, digging into the pocket of his jacket—the same one that had been dusted with toothpaste snow. He pulled out a small, round tin of ointment.
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“Here,” he said, pressing it into my hand. “I brought you this. It helps with the itch.”
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I was bewildered. “The itch?”
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“You mentioned yesterday that your throat was itching,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “After our karaoke. I thought it might be sore. It’s a balm. You rub it on your throat.” He demonstrated on his own neck. “And then, you know, when it feels better… you can sing with me again.”
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I stared at the small, unassuming tin in my palm. It was the most ridiculous, most thoughtful gesture I had ever received. He had listened to my offhand complaint, remembered it, and gone out of his way to find a solution. It wasn’t a grand, dramatic declaration. It was practical. It was kind. It was care, manifested in a tiny metal container.
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Slowly, almost numbly, I pried the lid open. The scent of camphor and eucalyptus bloomed into the humid air, sharp and clean. I dipped my finger into the waxy balm and, following his example, rubbed it gently onto the skin of my throat. A cooling sensation spread instantly, a welcome relief against the sticky heat. It soothed the physical itch, and somehow, for a moment, it soothed the frantic, scratching confusion in my mind.
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“Darn. Darcy,” I breathed, shaking my head. I couldn’t look at him.
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He just smiled, a soft, knowing smile. “Feel better?”
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I did. The ointment felt so good on my throat. It was a simple, physical comfort in a world of overwhelming emotional complexity. He hadn’t tried to solve the Bensimon situation. He hadn’t demanded an answer to his proposal. He had simply addressed a minor, physical discomfort because he cared for me, and that act of care was, in its own way, more powerful than any song or grand statement could ever be.
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The tram continued its lumbering journey, taking us nowhere in particular. The humid air still clung to us, the city still roared outside, and my heart was still a tangled knot of conflicting loyalties. But for the rest of that aimless ride, with the cool, soothing balm on my skin and the scent of camphor between us, I just sat there, feeling the rock of the tram and the profound, exasperating, and utterly disarming presence of the boy beside me, who loved me enough to give me an ointment for an itch I’d already forgotten I had. Darn him. Darn him for being so impossible. And darn him for making it so terribly difficult to think of anything else.
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and then Add to home screen.