Lin Page 9   Gun Duk: Outside that miserable apartment, he is in love, with everything. the double-decker trams that drag him dinosaurlike through Cause-way Bay to Wanchai, where he lives. The clubs where the English and Americans hang out to snort their cocaine (he has no interest in all that, but finds those gueilo fascinating nonetheless). The wispy arms and even wispier hair of the girls who populate the dance clubs. The smell of hot, greasy food at three in the morning as he and his buddies stumble home from another night of betting and carousing and singing. Cheng: Perhaps she will be a writer. There is something writerly about this summer thunder-storm, and she wishes to capture it on paper: the fearsome beat of the raindrops against the win-dows, the uncollected laundry twisting in dis-tress on the lines outside, the way the light seems to inhabit the tousled bedcovers. She and Gun Duk have been together for a year, and now he tsk-tsks at her: Don't you clean your feet anymore? Look at this dead skin! She is laid out on the tiled floor, the sweat on her exposed arms and legs slick as oil, and he rubs her feet, watch-ing intently as the snowy specks of epidermis drift to the floor. To her, he seems both protect-ive and distant. What do you do when a man who cares for you, a man you love, is getting bored? First you must pinpoint what bores him, and how do you do that? Much simpler if he could only say: Sorry, I'm not interested any-more. But no, he remains, even as she searches in vain for a job, and he patiently points out the best local noodle shops, or the latest in Hong Kong slang, or how to get from here to there. And he still buys her those perfect-fitting jeans (such a compliment that he studies my body that carefully), those zip-up leather boots. Maybe he is waiting for her to declare boredom first, like