Jiading

Its Tuesday night, which means my weekly serenade is about to begin.  I hustle to the kitchen window and push it open.  Neighbors below are cooking fish. Smells nice.  And the wafts of my own meal prep escape into the cool October air. Pork Belly, with rice, it’s nearly ready but I’ll let it simmer and make myself look busy. Besides, the kids are buried in their homework, and Liu has the game on.  No rush. And so it begins, first with some scales. Up, down, methodically, and in tempo. Slow, fast, slow again but in a jazzy way.  I hope he plays the one I like, maybe it’s an American love song. Or something classical would be nice. I think he is starting with some improvisation, sounds kind of  sad. How beautiful. Somewhere eight stories below, along the river, I imagine him perched on a bench, his notes reverberating off the water and walking path. The noises from town make it all the more pleasant. A football game in the distance. Glasses and plates being set for dinner next door.  What a nice town we live in.  Now it’s a traditional Chinese song. You always play this, and I think you hope others are listening. It’s ok. I’m listening.  Please continue.  Alto Saxophone? I should know this. It’s some kind of saxophone.  There’s something about that sound, and the way it travels, endlessly meandering along the tree line. One day, maybe I will go down there and be his first spectator. Will he take requests? Oh what a funny daydream! But at some point, I must know what he really looks like. The music plays on, now Adele I think, and I imagine him in a tweed jacket, spectacles, and a short brim hat. How handsome he must look! The kids are stirring, perhaps they are hungry.  My serenade has ended, and with a grimace of disappointment, I can also look forward to next week.  The game on TV is ending and so it’s almost time to serve dinner. But the dog must go out and do his business so I give a five minute warning and get the leash.  The inside of our elevator smells of eggs and feet. But it has always smelled this way, and I don’t mind. It actually smells comforting to me at this point. Like home.  As we go down, I think my life is very nice, but sometimes I wish to have my youth back.  At the bottom, an old man waits as the door opens. In his hand, he holds a black case, a saxophone case.  He could be my fathers age. Short, but thin, and upright.  No hat, but clean hair and nicely dressed.  There is youth in his eyes and a gentleness in his face.  From him, a simple “Nihao” and my face turns red.  He must know!  I say nothing. Too embarrassed!  We move past one another, my dog anxious to get outside, and just like that he is gone.  Catching my breath, a giggle sneaks out, and I am 17 again. Perfection. A part of me loves this man. And his saxophone. This will be my forever secret.  My Tuesday night romance.