(1.1) First principle of courting: to make oneself sevenfold; to place oneself sevenfold about the woman [man] who is desired.

Some Korean girl said,

‘You’re getting old. You need to find yourself a husband in five (4) years or I’ll call you an old maid.’

At twenty seven (27)? Really? But you haven’t met anyone you could possibly love. You’re not even sure you believe in love.

Love.

What does it mean anyway? Even the dictionary doesn’t help. There should be a manual. Step by step. Colour by numbers. So what if you go over the lines a bit? It should have standards that aren’t as simple as in or out. You should be able to love someone completely without being with them. Why do you need to chase after someone just because you can’t stop thinking about them?

*

You feel weightless as you walk into the Mandarin Centre. With your spider senses tingling, you scramble up the escalator. Sensory functions converge as the dragon appears at the top, his white shirt billowing behind him. He gives you a slight nod.

Dragon [noun; Middle English, from Old French, from Latin dracō, dracōn- , large serpent, from Greek drakōn; see derk- in Indo-European roots.]:
1. A mythical monster traditionally represented as a gigantic reptile having lion claws, the tail of a serpent, wings and scaly skin.
2.a. A fiercely vigilant or intractable person. b. Something very formidable or dangerous.
3. Archaic: a large snake or serpent.
4. In Big 2, the Dragon is a 13 card straight. Sometimes incurs an instant win and thus a reshuffle.
5. The being carved by god from granite made by heaven. The dragon is the oblivious object of all your attention, often seen with a small group of similar minded lackeys. Standing a head above his friends, he has perfected the art of inciting fear into the Iron Fortress (that’s you). Once a formidable force, you have been reduced to a giggling bubble in the presence of the Dragon.
6. Love

You scribble his name across your mind. The Dragon even has a song.

This is a song for everybody who needs love
This is a song for all of those tears
Where I’m standing now
I love this place and I love you all
And do you know what?
This is a song for you and me.

*

(1.2) To the lover, the loved one appears always as solitary.

He creates butterflies out of thin air. They flutter in your stomach. A sombre storm dances in the depths of your being and spreads to the tips of your fingers, your toes. A millions of thousands of explosions all at your nerve ends. A cerebral derby of thoughts colliding with memory in splashes of sepia and grey scale. You manage a slight bow. In your head he becomes a caricature, a real life equivalent of the Asian pop idols plastered on your computer screen. You christened him the Dragon because there is nothing superior than a Dragon. He is what becomes of the moment when all that is hot and all that is cute, converge. He is, as Benjamin informs you, both protagonist and antagonist. His portrait is in every book you read, your imagination struggles to contain each new image of him.

You follow him out into the overhead pass that connects the Mandarin Centre to Chatswood car park, where you meet the other guys. He hooks his fingers on the metal wire that runs the length of the overpass. Just above his hand sits a sign: No Smoking.

The wind picks up; you shiver, clenching your fists tight. He cocks his head as he smokes and his fringe falls across epicanthic folds as he watches as you wind the scarf tighter around your neck. When did you start thinking that smoking was cool? You saw it in one of your dramas, the high school delinquent squatting outside the school gate with a tobacco in his hand. His uniform slightly ruffled, unkempt, folded at the elbows, un-ironed. When did you start thinking that delinquents were cool?

He takes a drag, Mild Seven One, spits and you think it’s gross. There’s nothing more disgusting than saliva. Maybe the word ‘moist’ but that’s because it’s related to your disgust of saliva. Why does he smoke if he is going to spit it out anyway?
-Are you thirsty?
Nodding your head at the puddle forming at his feet. He runs his tongue across the inside of his cheek. He stares at you. At the puddle of spit. At you. At the puddle of spit. You imagine a ding resounding in his brain as he grins.
- You should see it in another hour.
His laughter echoes the guys’ approval. They reminisce of the time they created a puddle big enough to jump in. The imagery churns your stomach. You’re nauseous from his laugh. A small shiver runs through you. He notices. He thinks you’re cold again. He grabs a jacket and wraps it around you, a cigarette dangling from his lip as he smiles at you. He ruffles your hair.

As he walks away you store his smell in your memory bank. Menthol cigarettes. And Boss.