안녕하세요.两年前嗰个冬天我问你除咗英语之外仲有无学其它外语，你就同我讲咗一句噉样嘅话，一直今日我都记得好清楚。嗰时你仲问我点解咁中意打繁体字，我净係话繁体字好靓，并无太深入噉解释个中原因。
已经两年几啦，我一直同自己讲我已经放低咗，可惜仲係不由自主噉留意到伊个日子。
我仲记得今日係你生日，但係我已经连同你讲一句“生日快乐”嘅资格都无。
咁耐以嚟我一直都忍唔住想去再睇返你个微博，但係又一直都唔敢。
唔知你揾到嗰个令你倾心相许嘅오빠未呢？怕者你已经结咗婚啰，係咪呀？分手嘅时刻就好似一条新嘅起跑线，昔日嘅情侣开始暗地里较劲：相睇、物色新对象、拍拖、结婚••••••马不停蹄之余又好好奇对方目前嘅状况，都想抢喺对方前面同第个人步入殿堂，以此嚟证明一啲莫名其妙嘅嘢、满足嗰种连自己都捉摸不透嘅所谓“尊严”。虽然明知伊种隔空嘅攀比係无谓嘅，但係总係乐此不疲。我唔知你而家过得点，但係我觉得自己输咗啰，输得好彻底。
离开咗校园，记性太好其实真係唔係一件幸福嘅事。有啲嘢原本可以由佢随时间流逝、慢慢离自己远去，但係偏偏喺伊个日子我仍然想起你，仍然记得今日係你嘅生日。不过好可惜同你一齐过嘅人唔係我，我甚至连同你讲句“生日快乐”嘅借口都搵唔到。
或者，你早就已经唔记得我啰。我喺你嘅生命里面只係一个无谓人。
어쨌든, 당신 생일 축하합니다!

向隅顧影莫展籌

苦覓三載面未謀

他朝若享齊人福

敢笑西門不風流

Remember the day I borrowed your brand new car and dented it?
I thought you’d kill me, but you didn’t.

And remember the time I dragged you to the beach, and you said it would rain, and it did?
I thought you’d say, “I told you so.” But you didn’t.

Do you remember the time I flirted with all the guys to make you jealous, and you were?
I thought you’d leave, but you didn’t.

Do you remember the time I spilled strawberry pie all over your car rug?
I thought you’d hit me, but you didn’t.

And remember the time I forgot to tell you the dance was formal and you showed up in jeans?
I thought you’d drop me, but you didn’t.

Yes, there were lots of things you didn’t do.
But you put up with me, and loved me, and protected me.
There were lots of things I wanted to make up to you when you returned from Vietnam.
But you didn’t.

——By an ordinary American woman.

兒女夙願總一廂

思慕半生枉斷腸

愛侶皆償成眷屬

離雁泫然羨鴛鴦

——2012.03.31  凌晨

個女仔姓黃、叫阿杏、普寧人、喺我以前間中學隔離嗰間小學做老師。

佢老竇幾健談嘅，不過我同佢就無乜嘢講。

每次相睇唔成功，我阿媽經常都會唉聲歎氣，一係怪我表現唔好、一係怪我眼角高，甚至懷疑我加入咗邪教組織俾人洗咗腦、因為信教而專登唔搵對象。

唉，唔單只佢血壓高，其實我壓力都好大。

相睇咗咁多次，其實我對相睇真係已經絕望。但係無辦法，做得伊份工，交友圈子咁細，除咗相睇之外根本無任何其它渠道。

唔知點解，屋企個熱水器最近成日都死火，每日起碼要重新開佢幾次先可以沖完個涼。雖然好麻煩，但係望住部熱水器，我竟然有啲同病相憐嘅感覺——伊部唔驚唔覺已經用咗成十年嘅熱水器就好似唔驚唔覺差唔多相睇咗十年嘅我同異性嘅關係一樣，撻極都唔著、一著就熄。

人哋話失敗係成功之母，好好奇點解甘多個老母都孕育唔出一個唔會夭折嘅後代？第58次失敗就意味住被迫面對第59次嘅到嚟。

我唔知道伊段旅途有無總站、而家離終點仲有幾遠，不過我知下一站好快就到。

對於相睇，我已經開始由疲憊變成恐懼。

上完一個Ｓ班落嚟，收工之後仲要去同一個陌生嘅女仔食飯、應酬、寒暄……嗰種感覺，真係好攰。

其實，我真係唔明山西九毛九有乜咁好食，但係好多女仔都好中意。

今晚，第57次相睇，地點又係百信廣場嗰間九毛九。個女仔姓何、叫阿珍、86年、喺政務中心嗰邊一間物管公司做文職。

曾經聽人講：二十出頭係男人一生之中嘅最低谷，而女人卻正處於一生之中最美好嘅年華，如果有一個女仔喺伊個時候願意留喺你身邊、陪你一齊挨窮、一齊奮鬥，你一定唔可以辜負佢，因為，佢將自己一生之中最青春嘅時光獻咗俾一生之中最落魄嘅你——男人，絕對唔可以棄糟糠！

仲有四個月就踏入二字頭嘅最後一歲啦。好遺憾，伊個女人一直都無出現過。喺成長嘅過程當中，我聽過好多夫妻相處之道，但係始終搵唔到一個可以夫妻噉樣相處嘅人。

每當過完年之後都會有好多人辭職，今年都唔例外。連小小強都走咗啦，不過，佢臨走前都喺公司搵返個對象，真係唔可以唔佩服佢。點都好啦，人往高處走，希望佢喺聯通可以有更加好嘅前途——同埋，同蘿莉可以早日修成正果。

賢弟，加油啊！

死心塌地太浪費嗎？在原地忘掉她，爛泥亦能盛放繁花。

——題記

這是一個關於癩蛤蟆的故事，一個關於一隻想吃天鵝肉的癩蛤蟆的故事。

從前有一隻非常天真的癩蛤蟆，他一直在媽媽的懷裡無憂無慮地過日子，慢慢地長大，對外面現實的世界一無所知。直到有一天，他遇見了一隻天鵝，他完全被天鵝那美麗的身影、優雅的氣質所吸引，不知不覺地陷入了享用天鵝肉的美好憧憬中，即時只是憧憬，他也覺得非常幸福。就這樣，他在這憧憬裡越陷越深。等他明白過來時，發現自己早已無法自拔。

想當初，他與天鵝初次見面時，他很感謝上蒼，覺得在自己有生之年能夠見到如此迷人的倩影，可算不枉此生，可是當那天鵝飛走了之後，他又覺得上天對他很殘忍——既然我註定無緣享用天鵝肉，又為什麼要讓我遇見她呢？從此，這隻想吃天鵝肉的癩蛤蟆便沉溺在美夢破碎的痛苦之中，在一個又一個不眠之夜仰望深邃的漆黑夜幕，一遍又一遍地自問：“我是否一直在空蕩蕩的夜空中苦苦尋覓著屬於自己的哪一顆星？”就這樣，他在每個晚上都出神地望著與他同樣寂寞的孤月，風乾在臉上的淚痕縈繞著淡淡的月光。

他，就在別人“癩蛤蟆想吃天鵝肉”的冷嘲熱諷中、在灑遍一地的憧憬碎片上不知掙扎著爬過了多少歲月，被憧憬的碎片劃得遍體鱗傷，冰冷苦澀的淚水一遍又一遍地趟過往昔的舊痕……

後來，這隻疲憊不堪的癩蛤蟆終於想通了——或者說終於麻木了，在以後的日子裡，他再也沒有見到過那隻曾經令他痛不欲生的天鵝，沒有機會吃到天鵝肉，沒有再去懷念那個曾經令他幸福地沉溺其中的憧憬，也沒有再去回顧曾經令他遍體鱗傷的那一地碎片……只是他覺得對一個人曾經的死心塌地并不浪費，因為至少他明白了生活在別人的影子裡是非常痛苦的，癩蛤蟆不可能吃到天鵝肉，再美麗的幻想也只是個幻想而已。

癩蛤蟆的天鵝美夢破碎了，囚禁著他那仙境般綺麗的牢房也崩塌了……

——2005.10.03

The Execution of Mata Hari, 1917

Mata Hari was the stage name Dutch-born Margaretha Zelle took when she became one of Paris’ most popular exotic dancers on the eve of World War I. Although details of her past are sketchy, it is believed that she was born in the Netherlands in 1876 and married a Dutch Army officer 21 years her senior when she was 18. She quickly bore him two children and followed him when he was assigned to Java in 1897. The marriage proved rocky. The couple returned to the Netherlands in 1902 with their daughter (their other child, a son, had died mysteriously in Java). Margaretha’s husband obtained a divorce and retained custody of his daughter.

Mata Hari

Margaretha then made her way to Paris where she reinvented herself as an Indian temple dancer thoroughly trained in the erotic dances of the East. She took on the name Mata Hari and was soon luring audiences in the thousands as she performed in Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Madrid and other European capitals. She also attracted a number of highly-placed, aristocratic lovers willing to reward her handsomely for the pleasure of her company.

With the outbreak of World War I, Mata Hari’s cross-border liaisons with German political and military figures came to the attention of the French secret police and she was placed under surveillance. Brought in for questioning, the French reportedly induced her to travel to neutral Spain in order to develop relationships with the German naval and army attaches in Madrid and report any intelligence back to Paris. In the murky world of the spy, however, the French suspected her of being a double agent. In February 1917 Mata Hari returned to Paris and immediately arrested; charged with being a German spy. Her trial in July revealed some damning evidence that the dancer was unable to adequately explain. She was convicted and sentenced to death.

In the early-morning hours of October 15, Mata Hari was awakened and taken by car from her Paris prison cell to an army barracks on the city’s outskirts where she was to meet her fate.

“I am ready.”

Henry Wales was a British reporter who covered the execution. We join his story as Mata Hari is awakened in the early morning of October 15. She had made a direct appeal to the French president for clemency and was expectantly awaiting his reply:

“The first intimation she received that her plea had been denied was when she was led at daybreak from her cell in the Saint-Lazare prison to a waiting automobile and then rushed to the barracks where the firing squad awaited her.

Never once had the iron will of the beautiful woman failed her. Father Arbaux, accompanied by two sisters of charity, Captain Bouchardon, and Maitre Clunet, her lawyer, entered her cell, where she was still sleeping – a calm, untroubled sleep, it was remarked by the turnkeys and trusties.

The sisters gently shook her. She arose and was told that her hour had come.

‘May I write two letters?’ was all she asked.

Consent was given immediately by Captain Bouchardon, and pen, ink, paper, and envelopes were given to her.

She seated herself at the edge of the bed and wrote the letters with feverish haste. She handed them over to the custody of her lawyer.

Then she drew on her stockings, black, silken, filmy things, grotesque in the circumstances. She placed her high-heeled slippers on her feet and tied the silken ribbons over her insteps.

She arose and took the long black velvet cloak, edged around the bottom with fur and with a huge square fur collar hanging down the back, from a hook over the head of her bed. She placed this cloak over the heavy silk kimono which she had been wearing over her nightdress.

Her wealth of black hair was still coiled about her head in braids. She put on a large, flapping black felt hat with a black silk ribbon and bow. Slowly and indifferently, it seemed, she pulled on a pair of black kid gloves. Then she said calmly:

‘I am ready.’

The party slowly filed out of her cell to the waiting automobile.

The car sped through the heart of the sleeping city. It was scarcely half-past five in the morning and the sun was not yet fully up.

Clear across Paris the car whirled to the Caserne de Vincennes, the barracks of the old fort which the Germans stormed in 1870.

The troops were already drawn up for the execution. The twelve Zouaves, forming the firing squad, stood in line, their rifles at ease. A subofficer stood behind them, sword drawn.

The automobile stopped, and the party descended, Mata Hari last. The party walked straight to the spot, where a little hummock of earth reared itself seven or eight feet high and afforded a background for such bullets as might miss the human target.

As Father Arbaux spoke with the condemned woman, a French officer approached, carrying a white cloth.

‘The blindfold,’ he whispered to the nuns who stood there and handed it to them.

‘Must I wear that?’ asked Mata Hari, turning to her lawyer, as her eyes glimpsed the blindfold.

Maitre Clunet turned interrogatively to the French officer.

‘If Madame prefers not, it makes no difference,’ replied the officer, hurriedly turning away. .

Mata Hari was not bound and she was not blindfolded. She stood gazing steadfastly at her executioners, when the priest, the nuns, and her lawyer stepped away from her.

Mati Hari was 41 at the time of her execution.

The officer in command of the firing squad, who had been watching his men like a hawk that none might examine his rifle and try to find out whether he was destined to fire the blank cartridge which was in the breech of one rifle, seemed relieved that the business would soon be over.

A sharp, crackling command and the file of twelve men assumed rigid positions at attention. Another command, and their rifles were at their shoulders; each man gazed down his barrel at the breast of the women which was the target.

She did not move a muscle.

The underofficer in charge had moved to a position where from the corners of their eyes they could see him. His sword was extended in the air.

It dropped. The sun – by this time up – flashed on the burnished blade as it described an arc in falling. Simultaneously the sound of the volley rang out. Flame and a tiny puff of greyish smoke issued from the muzzle of each rifle. Automatically the men dropped their arms.

At the report Mata Hari fell. She did not die as actors and moving picture stars would have us believe that people die when they are shot. She did not throw up her hands nor did she plunge straight forward or straight back.

Instead she seemed to collapse. Slowly, inertly, she settled to her knees, her head up always, and without the slightest change of expression on her face. For the fraction of a second it seemed she tottered there, on her knees, gazing directly at those who had taken her life. Then she fell backward, bending at the waist, with her legs doubled up beneath her. She lay prone, motionless, with her face turned towards the sky.

A non-commissioned officer, who accompanied a lieutenant, drew his revolver from the big, black holster strapped about his waist. Bending over, he placed the muzzle of the revolver almost – but not quite – against the left temple of the spy. He pulled the trigger, and the bullet tore into the brain of the woman.

Mata Hari was surely dead.”

References:
Henry Wales’ account was originally published in newspapers through the International News Service on Oct. 19, 1917, republished in Carey, John, EyeWitness to History (1987); Howe, Russell Warren, Mata Hari: The True Story (1986).

2015年嘅第二個月份先過咗六日，但係今晚已經係我今年嘅第四次相睇。個女仔姓黎、叫阿君、87年嘉禾望崗人、喺元下田嗰邊做輔警、佢好似係我伯爺個孫個老師個姪女。

喺百信廣場嗰間麥當勞飲咗杯嘢，喺九毛九食咗餐飯，跟住送佢去車站。

以前每當相睇完一次我都忍唔住會鬆一啖氣，但係今晚我無。

聽阿媽講，醫生話嗰啲化療藥物對老竇完全唔起作用，仲話估計只剩返半年。聽到之後我真係心都涼曬，一下子好似連僅存嘅一啲希望都無埋。

阿媽話俾姨媽知，佢曾經講笑噉問老竇驚唔驚，老竇話唔驚。唉！其實有乜理由會唔驚？一個無辜嘅人突然間俾上帝判咗死刑，仲要眼白白噉瞓喺病床上等住死期嘅到嚟，嗰種滋味可想而知。佢話唔驚只係唔想我哋擔心啫。嗰日我送飯去俾老竇同阿叔食，老竇同我講咗好多嘢，講下講下佢又忍唔住流眼淚——喺厄運面前，“堅強”兩個字顯得幾咁脆弱。

我最記得老竇話，如果我懂事、真係幫得佢手嘅話，佢早就發咗達。但係曾經好長一段時間，我一直都認為：如果我老竇係李嘉誠，我絕對唔會差過李澤楷。

之前咁多年，到底係我唔理解我老竇，定係我老竇唔理解我？

伊啲係唔係就係所謂嘅“代溝”呢？

新市墟向來都好旺好熱鬧，臨近過年啲氣氛更加喜慶——間間商店唔係播《財神到》就係《恭喜恭喜》。原來，現實生活同連續劇係完全唔同嘅，當不幸降臨嗰陣，唔需要有傷感嘅配樂、唔需要有悲痛嘅氛圍，淚水一樣會喺眼裡面打轉。

阿媽話，事到如今唯有睇下有無奇跡，如果老竇可以飲到我杯茶就最好。

半年……

第55次相睇，個女仔姓劉、叫阿琳、86年、有兩個大佢十幾年嘅大佬、住喺彭上村、喺白雲新城嘅綠地中心上班。

我哋喺五號停機坪三樓嗰間長野拉麵食咗餐飯，佢好客氣（又或者講好見外），凈係點咗碗拉麵。

食麵之餘傾咗幾句，然後就匆匆分別。