The Hong Kong Waitress
THE HOTEL ROOM, Hong Kong 1998.
It’s late. He’s just returned from a long dinner with the local contacts, but he’s left early, claiming fatigue. Truth is, he didn’t want to be anywhere else but here — with her.
She opens the door in soft, flowing cotton — loose grey trousers, white top. No makeup. Barefoot.
And it knocks the air out of him. Not because she’s done something seductive. But because she hasn’t. She’s let him in, not just to her room, but to her real self — warm, unguarded, safe.
He steps inside. She closes the door behind him. There’s no kiss yet. Just the shared quiet. That charged silence of I’m here. I came.
They sit close. Their knees touch. The side lamp casts amber light across her face. She pours him jasmine tea — the same she did the night before. That smell will haunt him, years later.
________________________________________
When it begins
They’re close on the bed, side by side. She says something about how strange it is that the people who make you feel most alive are often the ones you’ve known the shortest. He doesn’t answer — he just looks at her. Really looks.
She sees it in his eyes. That flicker. That grief, maybe. Or desire, struggling to give itself permission.
So she kisses him.
And this time, unlike other times in his life, he doesn’t chase it. He receives it. It’s slow, soft — and slightly trembling. Their lips part again and again, not out of urgency, but to marvel. You’re here. I’m here.
He cups her face. She slides a hand up to his chest, fingertips resting just over his heart. His breathing deepens.
They undress each other piece by piece. No frenzy. Her top is pulled up over her head; his shirt is unbuttoned slowly, with reverence, as if she’s reading a story in his scars, his freckles, the salt of age. When she sees his body — still broad, but worn — she smiles and places a kiss just above his heart.
He wants to cry.
________________________________________
When she straddles him
He’s sitting upright against the headboard. She climbs gently into his lap, knees either side of his hips, her thighs folding around him like silk. Her chest rests against his, breasts soft against his skin. She takes his face in her hands and kisses him again — slow, endless.
And then, she reaches down. Takes him in her hand. Guides him to her.
He holds his breath. But she doesn’t rush.
She positions him against her entrance. And as she begins to sink down onto him — inch by inch — his head falls back, eyes closed, jaw clenched. Not from lust, not yet. But from the unbearable emotional weight of it.
He belongs here.
That’s what he feels. Not guilt. Not conquest.
But home.
Her hands go to his shoulders. Her forehead rests on his. And for a long moment, neither of them move. She is fully seated on him, surrounding him. But there’s stillness. Their breathing finds a shared rhythm.
No thrusting. No urgency. Just… stillness.
And then, gradually, she begins to move — rocking gently. Not to achieve climax. But to stay connected. To keep feeling. Her arms wrap around his neck. He grips her waist. Their eyes close. Their foreheads stay pressed together. He whispers, brokenly:
“I haven’t felt this in… God, Janet…”
She hushes him with a kiss.
________________________________________
The climax
It doesn’t explode. It unfolds.
He feels it coming — not just in his body, but in his soul. As if he’s been holding something in for years, and this moment lets it finally release. His hands tremble. He buries his face in her shoulder, lets out a deep, aching sound — not of lust, but of relief. Of surrender. Of loss.
And when he cums, it feels almost like weeping.
She strokes his hair. Kisses his ear. Holds him so tightly it hurts.
They stay connected. Her body still wrapped around him. His arms still clutching her. Even after he softens, neither moves. They stay.
________________________________________
Afterward
The city glows out the window. He lies with her curled in his arms. He studies the shape of her nose, the slope of her collarbone.
She falls asleep curled against his chest, her leg still hooked over his thigh.
He imagines a new life. Their flat. Her showing him how to cook proper Cantonese dishes. Him learning the new tram routes. Her laughing in a thick winter coat in some town in northern England.
And then he imagines her in his world. Meeting his *****ren. Seeing his wedding photo. Passing his wife in a supermarket aisle.
He closes his eyes. And for the first time in years, he wonders if he could actually do it — leave, start over, be a different kind of man.
He watches her sleep.
And something in him breaks.
Not because it wasn’t real.
But because it was.
It’s late. He’s just returned from a long dinner with the local contacts, but he’s left early, claiming fatigue. Truth is, he didn’t want to be anywhere else but here — with her.
She opens the door in soft, flowing cotton — loose grey trousers, white top. No makeup. Barefoot.
And it knocks the air out of him. Not because she’s done something seductive. But because she hasn’t. She’s let him in, not just to her room, but to her real self — warm, unguarded, safe.
He steps inside. She closes the door behind him. There’s no kiss yet. Just the shared quiet. That charged silence of I’m here. I came.
They sit close. Their knees touch. The side lamp casts amber light across her face. She pours him jasmine tea — the same she did the night before. That smell will haunt him, years later.
________________________________________
When it begins
They’re close on the bed, side by side. She says something about how strange it is that the people who make you feel most alive are often the ones you’ve known the shortest. He doesn’t answer — he just looks at her. Really looks.
She sees it in his eyes. That flicker. That grief, maybe. Or desire, struggling to give itself permission.
So she kisses him.
And this time, unlike other times in his life, he doesn’t chase it. He receives it. It’s slow, soft — and slightly trembling. Their lips part again and again, not out of urgency, but to marvel. You’re here. I’m here.
He cups her face. She slides a hand up to his chest, fingertips resting just over his heart. His breathing deepens.
They undress each other piece by piece. No frenzy. Her top is pulled up over her head; his shirt is unbuttoned slowly, with reverence, as if she’s reading a story in his scars, his freckles, the salt of age. When she sees his body — still broad, but worn — she smiles and places a kiss just above his heart.
He wants to cry.
________________________________________
When she straddles him
He’s sitting upright against the headboard. She climbs gently into his lap, knees either side of his hips, her thighs folding around him like silk. Her chest rests against his, breasts soft against his skin. She takes his face in her hands and kisses him again — slow, endless.
And then, she reaches down. Takes him in her hand. Guides him to her.
He holds his breath. But she doesn’t rush.
She positions him against her entrance. And as she begins to sink down onto him — inch by inch — his head falls back, eyes closed, jaw clenched. Not from lust, not yet. But from the unbearable emotional weight of it.
He belongs here.
That’s what he feels. Not guilt. Not conquest.
But home.
Her hands go to his shoulders. Her forehead rests on his. And for a long moment, neither of them move. She is fully seated on him, surrounding him. But there’s stillness. Their breathing finds a shared rhythm.
No thrusting. No urgency. Just… stillness.
And then, gradually, she begins to move — rocking gently. Not to achieve climax. But to stay connected. To keep feeling. Her arms wrap around his neck. He grips her waist. Their eyes close. Their foreheads stay pressed together. He whispers, brokenly:
“I haven’t felt this in… God, Janet…”
She hushes him with a kiss.
________________________________________
The climax
It doesn’t explode. It unfolds.
He feels it coming — not just in his body, but in his soul. As if he’s been holding something in for years, and this moment lets it finally release. His hands tremble. He buries his face in her shoulder, lets out a deep, aching sound — not of lust, but of relief. Of surrender. Of loss.
And when he cums, it feels almost like weeping.
She strokes his hair. Kisses his ear. Holds him so tightly it hurts.
They stay connected. Her body still wrapped around him. His arms still clutching her. Even after he softens, neither moves. They stay.
________________________________________
Afterward
The city glows out the window. He lies with her curled in his arms. He studies the shape of her nose, the slope of her collarbone.
She falls asleep curled against his chest, her leg still hooked over his thigh.
He imagines a new life. Their flat. Her showing him how to cook proper Cantonese dishes. Him learning the new tram routes. Her laughing in a thick winter coat in some town in northern England.
And then he imagines her in his world. Meeting his *****ren. Seeing his wedding photo. Passing his wife in a supermarket aisle.
He closes his eyes. And for the first time in years, he wonders if he could actually do it — leave, start over, be a different kind of man.
He watches her sleep.
And something in him breaks.
Not because it wasn’t real.
But because it was.
8ヶ月前
