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He feels it. The decadence of everything in his sight, but not quite in his touch; the cold-ish night, Mrs. Chan, and the solemn reverbs of the empty alley. The steak they ate earlier still had a faint taste in his lips, its savory sauce like a ghost in his tongue. Her cheongsam wear, patterned with irregular flowers, move with her like it was a sentient creature, her earrings dangling like a church bell. Chow itches; his fingers do, for a touch from her - but he knows it's sinfully trite.
"Is something the matter?" She asks, and Chow's brought back to the sore reality.
"No," he's quick to reply, his hands once again tucked in his pockets. "There was just something on my mind."
"Should we go home?" Chan says, her languid lips tucked in a soft smile. There was something genuine but dire in her grin, something glossy. "It's getting late, I don't want Mrs. Suen asking me where I've gone."
Chow tries to creep his hands for a cigarette, but there's something that told him to refrain from it. He doesn't want to go home yet... he wants to bask in the night with her. Eat more steaks or watch at the theatres. Every minute was precious for him.
"You're right, let's look for a cab," he sighs defeatedly. It's irresponsible to think this way.
His hands sweat unbearably in thought, the taste of the steak they shared persistent in his mouth as he walked remembering that God has his eyes on them at this moment.
Mrs. Chan's handbag swings forth as they surge through the alley side-by-side, a tiny glint of light in her eyes. They walk off into the night without such a thing as a word. This woman was already married to someone else, he reminds to himself. She was something he could see, but not quite touch.