Somewhere Only We Know(23)

Her mouth opened to answer, but something in her brain seemed to hitch and she took a beat longer than necessary. “Um, not really. But I’ve been here before.” I could imagine she’d been here a dozen times on tour, but never had a chance to actually be here.

While I knew I was doing this for a story, I also felt real excitement to share that with her. “Well, lucky you.” The word slipped out before I could think, but her face stayed impassive. “We happen to be near some of the best congee in the city. I’ll take you to my roommate’s favorite.”

There was a skip to her step as we headed to the café and she lifted her face up to the sun. Every part of her seemed to be stretching out from the shrunken, compacted version of herself. Suddenly, she halted, almost with a cartoon skidding noise. “Wait. Roommate?”

“Don’t worry, he didn’t see you. He works nights. Cab driver.”

She looked maybe 2 percent more relieved. We walked down narrow, winding streets, passing by gnarled banyan trees with air roots hanging down above us like curtains. The streets were steep and Lucky took her time—being careful with her steps and absorbing her surroundings, taking in every detail. The autumn cold snap had stayed through the night—the morning air was chilly and felt cleansing as we walked through it.

We finally arrived at a small, nondescript restaurant located on the ground floor of a slightly dilapidated building covered in bright signs. Because it was so early, it was nearly empty, with a lone old man sitting at a corner table reading a newspaper.

A skinny woman with permed hair approached us with menus and spoke in Cantonese. Lucky and I both held up our hands in a universal gesture of, “Sorry!”

She responded with a flat “Good morning,” handing us a couple laminated menus, and waved us toward a table by the windows. Classical music was playing in the background as we sat down in the squeaky vinyl chairs, the glass top of the table bouncing light into our eyes. Lucky was framed by calendars hanging on the wall behind her, the sun hitting her so that only her mouth was in light, the rest of her face obscured in shadow. It was the perfect shot. Lonely, vulnerable.

“Wanna eat an old-ass egg?”

I shook my head. “Excuse me?”

She held up the menu with a wide grin. “You can get your congee with a century egg!” Genuine excitement exuded from her as she pointed to a photo on the menu of what looked like an inky orb of evil.

“Sure,” I said, smiling back at her. It was pretty adorable to see how some of her personality quirks were actually real and not drunken antics. “It looks kind of rad.”

“You’ve never had one before?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No. I guess I’m proving to be a boring Hong Kong resident.”

But instead of showing disdain, Lucky’s face cracked wide open into a smile, and the surprise of it made my breath catch in my throat. “I’ve never tried it, either. But I’ve always wanted to.”

Even when she pretended to be “normal,” Lucky had a star quality. The kind of quality that made people’s breaths catch in their throats. Don’t let her charm you, Jack. Stay focused.

When the food arrived—porcelain bowls full of steaming porridge topped with our marinated eggs—I no longer had Lucky’s attention. Her eyes locked onto her bowl like a tractor beam. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the food get absorbed into her face.

And while she only had eyes for her food, I slid my phone out of my pocket. Under the table, I turned on the camera. When she dipped the long plastic chopsticks into the rice, lifting the bowl up to her face, I dragged the phone up toward the edge of the table, ever so slowly. And at just the perfect angle, I took a quick shot of her as she moved the bowl from her face. The light was still perfect, falling sharply on her features, dissecting half her face into shadow.

If she stuck around, this could be a story about a K-pop star escaping the confines of her life. Doing what she wanted. Like eating a local breakfast in a tiny restaurant tucked away on the busy streets of Sheung Wan.

I put my phone away before she could catch me in the act. But she still wasn’t paying any attention to me, instead gazing worshipfully at the congee. “My God.” Her voice hit this low register that sent a jolt through my entire body. But then she held her spoon up in the air and exclaimed, “You are sooooo deeeeeeelicious!” She sang the words—expertly and clear as a bell. Obviously, she was joking around, singing to a bowl of porridge. But the caliber of her voice … It was like watching Serena Williams play tennis when you never watched tennis. One look at her playing against normal human beings and you knew you were witnessing something special.

I don’t know why I was surprised. Maybe because I always thought of K-pop stars as manufactured performers rather than actual singers. But sitting in front of me, serenading a bowl of porridge, was a true vocalist.

“You have a nice voice. No wonder you’re in that choir,” I said while glancing down at my food.

There was a beat of silence on the other side of the table as I poked my porcelain spoon into the hot and gelatinous porridge. “Thanks,” she said quietly, her effervescence suddenly bottled up again.

I worried that I might have scared her off. But when I looked up she was shoveling more food in her mouth, her eyes closed blissfully.

“Fern, you love congee,” I said with a laugh, breaking my boiled egg apart with my chopsticks.