The humid Hong Kong air clung to my skin the moment I stepped out of my apartment, a thick, familiar blanket. I was meeting Hermione for lunch, and as always, a nervous, eager energy buzzed beneath my surface. Meeting Hermione was like stepping into a brighter, sharper version of the world. She was always a bit better—a bit more put-together, a bit more confident, her career a bit more impressive. She was the kind of woman my mother would hold up as a paragon, not to chastise me, but with a hopeful sigh that maybe, one day, I could be just a little more like her. She was my reluctant role model, and our meetings always left me feeling both inspired and curiously inadequate.
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We’d chosen a KFC in Causeway Bay, a temple of greasy, air-conditioned comfort amidst the gleaming shopping malls. I spotted her already seated, looking effortlessly chic in a simple linen dress, her phone and a small notebook neatly aligned on the table next to her tray. My own arrival felt clumsy in comparison, my tote bag overflowing with the detritus of my day.
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“You look stressed,” she said by way of greeting, offering a sympathetic smile that was also a diagnosis.
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“I always look stressed,” I laughed, sliding into the booth opposite her. “It’s my default setting. You look like you just stepped out of a magazine shoot for ‘Competent Women Who Have Their Lives Together.’”
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She waved a hand, dismissing the compliment. “It’s an illusion maintained by caffeine and anxiety. Now, talk to me. How are you? Any updates?” Her question, I knew, was primarily about my love life. For Hermione, modern dating was a strategic field to be mastered, and she was my often-bewildered general.
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I launched into a halting account of a recent date with a guy from a dating app—a perfectly pleasant, perfectly boring evening that had ended with a perfectly lukewarm text exchange. Hermione listened, nibbling on a french fry with a thoughtful frown.
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“What a headache to date guys,” she declared finally, her tone one of definitive, weary expertise. “It’s a no-win game. If you are independent and pay your share, they feel emasculated. If you let them pay, they feel entitled. If you are kind and listen to their problems, if you even treat them fairly, they never appreciate it. They begin to see you as a mother, or a therapist. They take the emotional labour and then resent you for providing it.”
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I nodded, my own experiences echoing in her words. It was a script I knew well.
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“It’s why I’ve shifted my focus,” she continued, her voice dropping slightly, though no one was listening to us. “Dating girls is… different. It’s clearer. You can love them more unconditionally, and you know that giving and taking on fair terms would not make the relationship power dynamic tilt in a bad way. There’s a shared understanding, a mutual respect for the effort it takes to move through the world as a woman. It’s not easier, but it’s… fairer.”
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I thought of Bensimon, of his chaotic, beautiful need. I thought of the immense, exhausting effort it took to simply hold space for him. Hermione’s words painted a picture of a serene, equitable partnership that felt a million miles away from that.
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“But with guys,” Hermione sighed, dragging a fry through a pool of ketchup, “you can never be sure. You can never be sure if he was in love with you, or just in love with the idea of you. You can never be sure if you’re in a relationship or if you are just friends with benefits who he’s too emotionally stunted to label properly. The ambiguity is exhausting.”
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Her modern ideas felt less like liberation and more like a complex new set of rules for a game I didn’t particularly enjoy playing. It was all so analytical, so strategic. I looked down at our food, a guilty pleasure we’d both embraced. I’d gotten the afternoon tea set—a crispy chicken piece, a fluffy egg tart, and a tiny, perfect corn on the cob.
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“You know,” I said, picking up the drumstick, “my dad makes it sound like I am doing drugs when I eat KFC. That’s how much he hates girls eating fatty foods. He’ll see an advertisement and mutter about ‘unladylike behaviour’ and ‘spoiling your dinner.’ He thinks a woman should be like a delicate piece of porcelain, sustained by tea and tiny sandwiches.”
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Hermione laughed, a bright, clear sound. “Afternoon high tea is more of a feminine thing? All those little cakes and scones? It’s practically a ritual.”
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“Yes, but it’s a specific kind of feminine,” I explained, feeling a familiar frustration bubble up. “It’s controlled, elegant, dainty. It’s performed femininity. There are rules. You hold the cup a certain way. You eat the scone in bites small enough to not leave crumbs on your lipstick. It’s about appearance.” I gestured to my chicken piece. “This? This is visceral. It’s greasy. You have to pick it up with your hands. You get crumbs everywhere. It’s satisfying in a way a cucumber sandwich could never be. It’s real. And I really like the KFC afternoon meals. It feels like a tiny, greasy rebellion.”
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I was talking about more than food, and I think she knew it. I was talking about the performance of being a woman—the version my father, and to some extent the whole world, expected. The version Hermione seemed to excel at, even as she deconstructed it. The delicate high tea versus the hearty, unpretentious KFC. The dream of a serene, equitable relationship with a woman versus the messy, complicated reality of my feelings for a man like Bensimon.
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Hermione looked at me, her head tilted. For a moment, the role model facade slipped, and I saw something more thoughtful, more curious in her eyes. “So you like the rebellion?” she asked.
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“I like the realness,” I clarified. “High tea is a performance. This is just… eating. It’s hunger and satisfaction, no performance required.”
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We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the clatter of the restaurant and the distant hum of traffic filling the space between us. I thought about her clean, modern ideas about love, so neatly categorized. I thought about my own life, which felt like a tangle of contradictions. I was a modern woman with a career and independence, yet I was still haunted by my father’s traditional expectations. I was drawn to the idea of a simple, fair partnership Hermione described, yet I found myself inextricably pulled toward the chaotic, unfair, and deeply real connection with a man who might never be able to love me the way I needed.
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Hermione finished her egg tart and wiped her fingers neatly on a napkin. “Maybe it’s not about guys or girls,” she said, her tone softer now, less like a lecturer and more like a friend. “Maybe it’s just about finding someone who lets you be real. Who doesn’t need you to be a porcelain doll at high tea or a therapist or a mother. Someone you can eat greasy chicken with and not worry about the crumbs.”
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I looked at her, surprised. It was the most romantic thing I’d ever heard her say, and it had nothing to do with gender or strategy. It was about crumbs. It was about the simple, unperformative act of being yourself.
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“Do you think that exists?” I asked, my voice smaller than I intended.
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She smiled, a genuine, warm smile this time. “I hope so, Bauhinia. For both our sakes. Otherwise, what’s the point of any of it?”
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We left the cool, greasy haven of KFC and stepped back out into the sweltering, demanding city. Hermione hailed a taxi with her usual efficient grace, heading back to her important job and her modern life. I stood on the pavement for a moment, watching her go. The buzz of her confidence faded, leaving me with my own thoughts.
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Her world was one of clear definitions and strategic choices. My world was messier. It was the scream on a tiny mountain, the taste of greasy chicken, the weight of a father’s disapproval, and the terrifying, thrilling possibility of loving someone not for their potential, but for their flawed, complicated, and real self. It wasn't a modern idea. It was perhaps a very old one. And as I turned to walk home, I felt a little less inadequate, and a little more like I was finding my own way, one greasy, real, crumb-filled step at a time.
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and then Add to home screen.