And I say, Yeah, I suppose she is.

F

ORTY

-E

IGHT

The projector flickers white light onto the wall as the small screening room emerges, slow and smooth, from the darkness.

Me, Akemi and Charles, we’re all sitting in a row of reclining chairs, me in the middle.

Watching the end credits rise, backed by an orchestra of swoon-inducing strings.

Akemi nudges me with her elbow. That was fun, watching that film for the fiftieth time.

Charles nudges me with his elbow. He says, He got a Golden Horse award for that performance. Unbelievable.

He beckons me to lean over, and he whispers in my ear, We’ve taken his wife, we’ve taken his child.

He whispers, And you’re absolutely right, we should take his career next.

I’m thinking, What? I never suggested that we take his career.

Or did I?

Akemi says to me softly, Why can’t we watch something different for once? Like some vintage Masahiro Shinoda or something?

I look at Charles, and he’s being serious.

And I whisper back to him, I didn’t suggest we take his career?

Charles frowns at me. He says, Are you pulling my leg? We had a conversation about it the other night. A couple of days ago. Outside the building. Remember?

I flip through the index cards of my brain, try and remember where I was two nights ago, because I for sure don’t remember having this conversation that Charles is adamant we had.

What are you two talking about? says Akemi.

Before we can answer, she gets out her phone and chuckles at a message she’s received.

She leans over and shows me, the screen lighting her face with a ghostly glow.

I look at the screen, and what I’m looking at is a selfie. Of me. Pulling a comedy face, tongue sticking out, eyes crossed.

I didn’t take that selfie, and no playing, I didn’t send it to Akemi.

Or did I?

You’re such a joker, she says.

Charles says, I think your mind is going soft, son. Perhaps you should start playing Go with me.

The padded walls close in, and I feel like I am going to be crushed.

F

ORTY

-N

INE

I knock on the door, one-two-three.

I listen, but there is no movement, no sound on the other side.

I knock again, louder this time, the edge of my fist turning it into a thump.

Behind it, I hear soft footsteps approaching.

The door opens, and Other Me is standing there.

Oh hey, he says. Want to come in?

I walk past him into the living room, stand by the sofa like a lemon.

He says, Want to sit down?

So I sit on the sofa.

He says, Want a drink?

And I say, No, thanks.

He sits down next to me and he says, So, what’s good?

For true, the charm just oozes out of him.

I look at him for a second. The crossed legs, the arms extending to the top corners of the sofa, the body pointed in the direction of mine.

Crisp white T-shirt, loose black trousers, white socks and black slides. His hair is damp and combed, and I smell the earthy body wash he used in the shower.

I hear the cars driving past slow on the street below, punctuated by the frequent zip of scooters. Someone somewhere is playing an old-sounding Taiwanese pop song on the radio, and the shrill female voice wobbles its pentatonic notes in through the open window and into the room.

I say, Have you been talking to Charles and Akemi?

Nuh-uh, he says, picking some fluff off his trousers.