It's time to take the floor. 


Flying solo is one thing.  But navigating as a duo?  Partnership is wresting with combat in any givensecond.  Uncertain if they are ready, they have to give it a go.  Afterall, they have meshed for a while.


The lean pair, like legendary figure skaters, has mirroring faces and bodies that could pass as siblings. She has been around, and he has been meandering. Their paths crossed at a second hand reading episode where she struggled to speak and he faintly listened. Demeanour aside, whether their minds are also synchronised is yet to be discovered. He is uninhibited in his acts but reserved to opine. She is enthused to engage but fastidious with her process. Complementarity could be the resolve to survive those decisive three minutes. 


They chose  to enter from the obscure part of the hood, which will cease to operate after this undertaking. Their first will be its last. But no, it doesn't matter, because every time is unique. Yes, every time, is unique.


Is anyone paying attention? 


It isn’t easy, for the surrounding is taxing. The wet market one block down infuses the air with hosed-down blood and wind-dried corpses. The Institution next door, seemingly vacated, functions conspicuously as the city’s surveillance camera. Oversized buses forces their way in, spitting out clamorous tourists and battered luggage. Sky-reaching hotel across the street restrains its inhabitants’ raunchiness behind one-sided mirror windows. Residents from above, leaving the fifty year old building every ten minutes, hardly noticing the pair is stealthily getting ready.


They had chassed along a similar narrow strip, in a domestic setting, where nosy neighbours, obtruding plants and fluttering laundry hovered around. The cerulean curtains they finally put up could hardly bar inquisitive shadows and uninvited conversations from spilling into their privacy.  So they padded the corridor with furniture and belongings, depositing a very narrow strip where they would shuttle back and forth between the bedroom and the front door, one after another, day in and day out.


But this strip, at the obscure end of the hood, seems more spacious.  As unwanted furniture and fixtures are cast outside, there seems to be even room to make a promenade run. 

This is where they will be presented, how they will enter the scene, and when they will be tested on competition and compatibility. 


The pair took a deep breath, and decided to ditch their everyday practice. An opposite number, deserving the narrow but ample space in a distracting environment, should be adopted. Afterall, this isn’t home.  This is the field.  They are no longer preventing onlooker’s sight. They need to be a spectacle.


Nude, accentuated with crystals. 

Dichotomy was the colour of their show.


She carefully wiped the glass squeaky clean, so that blurriness would not be an excuse.  He sporadically cabled the corners with motion sensors, so that any movements will trigger illumination, flagging passers-by to spot their dance. 


Amid consecutive days of heavy rain and thunder, the music began.


She led, like a drummer, counting down the rhythm with full strides, dragging toes and heels through the reflective floor. Feeling her steadiness, he followed, meekly towering down from an arabasque to a spiral.  


She turned back, signaling through syncopated cucarachas that the limelight is for steal. He leaped and jumped away from the spot, spinning to the opposite end of the spectrum, fueling tension to their distance.

Separated in their corners, they shrieked and collapsed, rolling into a slow but fierce rise through hunched backs. Eyes locked with trust and contempt, they raised their elbows extending into forearms and fingers gnarling into the air, ready to attack.


They raced into a wrangle, with panned up rage and suppressed liberation never articulated behind curtains, charging the public space leaving no regrets in-between. 


And combusted.

Unlike any fireworks televised on July 1st. 

Vivian Fung