Siming is like an oversized hummingbird, drawn to all things light and fluttery, things that sparkle. She thinks to herself, thankfully, she’s not a double-coated puppy, otherwise she would get too excited chasing the fluff she sheds into the air every day, and if she got too excited, her mini heart might overwork itself trying to pump blood to her brain. She and her equally light and fluttery friend, Maomao, share a telepathic connection despite their long-distance relationship. Maomao writes that she has been working so diligently, and even as her thesis deadline approaches, she always finds time to chat with Siming, so perhaps she is most suited to be a part-time girlfriend. Siming says she feels the same—after all, a PTGF can justify her desire to be spoiled, and share a piece of her overflowing love with everyone. It would be even better if the client were a stranger: parting ways after a short fling would allow her to easily dispose of her performed clinginess and affection. A love like a shooting star burns too bright, too moth-to-flame brilliant; she’d rather be a comet, some taking seventy years to return to Earth, others moving along a deadly orbit, as if walking a tightrope with eyes closed.

Maomao is the only person with whom she finds safe to trust this shared desire. After all, the majority of threads on Golden Forum have devolved into angry rants about girls refusing to offer full service. She takes pleasure in topics that cannot be discussed in the open, but it has to be a delicate kind of darkness, like the hidden parts of the Milky Way. Shooting stars are good, while comets confined by centripetal force feel heavy—a bungee-jumping kind of heavy. But not the sticky, shadowy kind of heaviness—pleasure can only be derived from self-destruction if done right. Down she scrolls; threads discussing bodily fluids spiral out of control, wrapping around her beak and feathers.    For the little pony who wishes to cross the river, there’s no need to probe the water’s depth. A quick dip with its front hooves alone foresees the possibility of drowning. Scratch that, then—for a long while, no one has really been working as a PTGF. At a gathering with friends, Siming made a jokingly confession of her fleeting aspiration. Her friends egged her on, making her find the dust-laden post in her drafts. Together they held her hands and pressed the “post” button. Her post had no photos, which seems to be an industry standard, only her basic information and a list of prices in simple terms. A 300 HKD package included a movie, going out for a drive, and holding hands. In terms of karaoke … she’s not a good singer, maybe put dinner and a café date instead. “This sounds like a maid café!” Siming exclaimed. No one believed it was her true desire after her breezy dismissal of it as a joke, all wishing her a “prosperous business.” So, when she receives a message just a few days later, the unexpected agitation she feels is at odds with her earlier wishful thinking. Whoa, there’s someone who actually wants me as their girlfriend. What if it goes differently from what I imagined? What if the client is domineering, overbearing … Well, no one’s paying me to satiate my dark and senseless fantasy. Thinking so, Siming once again becomes bold as brass. Just three hours, she ponders. It won’t go later than midnight, just the three hours before the MTR stops running. After that, I could finally put my curiosity to rest. She rummages through the forum for more and more new information, like a primary school kid preparing for next day’s class. How to break the ice, what kind of smile do clients prefer—similar to the etiquette of business reception, complaisance is good, but not always good. Those who wish for inappropriate physical contact won’t come to see her in broad daylight.

Siming’s mind has drifted to the café long before her feet carry her there on a bright afternoon. She feels shy; her client appears at ease. Down they sit in this coffee shop in Mong Kok, the jostling weekend crowd unable to cover up the steaming nerve that’s about to burst from her head. But she has to pretend to be one of those professionals, which leaves her no choice but leaning her body slightly forward, breaking into a suggestively inviting smile. “Good afternoon. Are you Mr. Jay?”

Wisps of curly hair fall beside Siming’s cheeks, swaying with her earrings—she has spent a full two hours doing makeup and fixing her hair before leaving. Across from her, his hair hangs listlessly, covering half his forehead. A natural-colored canvas bag slouches limply by his chair. He responds by the barest nod. Ah, the client isn’t as nervous or excited as I imagined. Feeling anxious, she adds, How honored I am to have you as my boyfriend—on my first booking!

His composure finally ripples. He asks, Does Miss Siming say this to every client? Siming tries to make up for it: I’m a Leo, and Leo’s don’t lie. It is, in fact, lucky to have a girlfriend like me. What is Mr. Jay’s sign? Jay says, I don’t believe in astrology. Ouch, this is difficult, what a major setback. The once rosy-colored fantasy is an illegal construction, with a blood-red “demolish” sign slapped across its wall, which now has peeled off and smacked Siming’s eye lashes. “Oh, I see. Being your girlfriend is quite a challenge, then, without the assist of horoscopes. I’ll just have to work harder—a slow sparrow should make an early start. Those who are less capable must take up more work.”

She has no intention to rush the client to become a regular; this is but a daydream. Having her eager service ignored feels awful nevertheless. Unprompted, Jay begins his monologue: “I don’t think celestial positions can affect someone’s personality and fortune, let alone only affecting those who happened to be born in the same month as me. Stars are stars. Stars die after tens of thousands of years. Stars can’t be the reason for me to decide if I like or dislike someone.”

“Oh, I also took astronomy as a freshman.” “I didn’t know you went to university.” Siming props her chin, swinging her suspended feet under the chair, ready to dodge the falling sneer. Aware of his inappropriate remark, Jay’s brows take on a hint of softness. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it. I know you’re very smart, and I hope I didn’t offend you. I’m actually a Libra. I used to study physics, but only because HKU stopped offering astrology as a major that year. In retrospect, it was a fortunate coincidence. Sitting indoors, chatting about stars with you—that’s what romance looks like in this concrete jungle. Let me guess, you took astronomy to fulfill the Gateway Education requirements, didn’t you? How did your school teach it?”

“I don’t recall anymore. Hm, we had to study the sun’s structure, corona, sunspots?” Even humanities and art student were required to take three credits in science to graduate. Four years ago, Siming had little interest in these other subjects, biting her lips while browsing a list of course registration codes. Her fingertips trailed down the spreadsheets on her screen like the tip of a pen, turning possibilities over and over. At seven, Siming received a telescope as her birthday gift. She always brought it with her on family’s weekly road trip to the country, in the hope of observing something. She thought to herself, might as well go with the flow and step back into the comfort zone, at least not wasting those childhood memories. Only when sitting in an actual classroom did she realize the subject was more frustrating than those long waits through clouds and storms, for an unseen moon. She grew bored even before the Mid-Autum day arrived with its guaranteed full moon. Siming hadn’t known that the astrology class was to be held in a classroom surrounded by computers, windowless even—the air trapped by the breath of dozens felt heavier than Jupiter. She tells him all this bit by bit, her composure crumbled as the story reaches the regretful ending: “There was supposed to be an observation session, but nobody showed up, because, I think, the T8 signal was hoisted. I forgot if there was a make-up class. What about you? You must have had many of those opportunities, right?”  

He deflects with a node. Then how about we go to the Space Museum, we could take a walk along Nathan Road or take a taxi. Just a few turns once we are near the harbor. There are meteorite specimens on view and a newly renovated Space Theater with a hemispherical screen. We could make up the lesson you missed. “O—k—i—e—,” her trailing syllable swells with gusto, the pitch rising high enough to wrap round and round her eyelids, tucking and retucking her spilling guilt beneath. Wait, why would someone pay me to talk about what classes I took as a student, and with such polite innocence? What was supposed to be pure joy has instantly turned to wicked thoughts—Those girls who’ve been in the business for long, I wonder if they would be screaming in silence right now, “just hand me the cash equivalent already”? A little less than fifty dollars can be exchanged for a little more than ten minutes—minutes that she and her never-before-met colleagues once fantasized as pink plastic-y bubbles, now worn down into a desperate eagerness to clock off.

They pass through varying densities of summer air conditioning to reach the exhibition area in the basement. Mr. Jay walks while Siming bounces along, both looking at meteorites from space lying in glass cases. Jay asks, Is this your first time here? Seeing Siming nod, he continues, I used to come here often with my ex-girlfriend. She wanted to study astronomy just like me and naturally found a liking for this place. Siming’s heartfelt nods and admiring words are immediately stifled. She treads carefully, hands clasped behind her back. It turns out that he’s here reliving old memories. “If I were Mr. Jay’s girlfriend, I would absolutely never break up with you.” A dream paid for deserves more, so she turns and extends her hand, “But if it were me, I’d want to thank your ex for breaking up with you, otherwise we wouldn’t have met at such a special moment.” It’s the utmost happiness to let these rehearsed, honeyed lines off her lips, and with more sincerity than she imagined. This is the special moment.

Jay chooses not to take her hand, only offering an unprompted “thank you”. He seems content. The two of them make their way slowly through the displays, infatuated like real lovers. Their movements unfold more languorously than a slow-motion film. Siming is deeply moved—visiting the Space Museum with someone she loves the most in the world was once so unattainable, not even a whole litter of tears could trade for. If this were a shoujo manga, ten minutes after starlight falls upon them, they should prepare for a blushing kiss under the stars. By the time Siming manages to drag herself out of her sunken reverie, they’ve already gone upstarts and taken seats in the last row of the Space Theater. The film covers the Milky Way, the solar system (should I lean against him), Halley’s Comet (will we kiss)—what would my “colleagues” do? Siming doesn’t have the courage to turn her head, only daring to measure the angle between their bodies with excessive sidelong glances. Her torso inches too slow for an hour hand, too brash for a minute hand; she can only comically tilt her body to the right every five minutes, at a thirty-degree increment. At this rate, she plots, she’ll lean against him before the show’s end. But this isn’t necessary at all. He only leans close when he talks, stiffly bending forward. “Did you know that just yesterday, NASA discovered the largest comet ever seen?” Siming nods—this is a moment that might give away her nerve, “I saw the news. Perhaps we’ll go extinct.”

His dry monologue streams forward: I’d like to think that it’s better for me to die. Eight, nine years ago, she and I followed I—did you learn about Comet ISON in class? It was observable in the latter half of 2013. Oh, maybe you were too young to remember. I only paid attention to it because of her. She wanted to get a master’s degree in astronomy in the U.S. and research comets. I told her if she insisted on going, we’d have to break up. I wanted a beautiful future together, bringing our observation gear up the mountains during our annual leaves. She was a romantic, less a comet than a full moon. She envisioned her life to be a flawless circle that admits not even the slightest compromise. We could only make a bet—if ISON survived its passage during perihelion intact, she would stay; if it fell apart, she could go. 

“A year before, astronomers projected with confidence that ISON would be as bright as the full moon, but when it got closer to Earth, its apparent magnitude fell far short of earlier predictions. Although its brightness increased on approach to the Sun, its final image after reaching perihelion appeared only as bright as Venus. I thought perhaps that was enough. However, the serval hours after perihelion, it disappeared from even the Hubble telescope’s sight.” Jay’s narration abruptly stops. Ouch, Siming holds her breath. It all makes sense now. That’s why he’s here today as my client. “It wasn’t too much of a surprise, though. It was only the size of a few soccer fields, and there had been many other comets that vanished without return. I bid her goodbye with a bleeding heart and hoped for the best of her future. However, one day later, signals from the NASA Solar and Heliospheric Observatory showed that ISON was still alive. The light emitted from its torn nucleus was too faint and astronomers mistook that it had disintegrated.”

Siming’s heart keeps sinking as he speaks, like a diver weighed down with too much ballast. Those girls from Japan or Hong Kong who make their livings as PTGFs, what would they say? Say I’m here, I’ll always be here, you’ll meet someone as perfect as me. To keep a regular roster of clients, do they always have to listen to these masterly manifestations of obsession and devotion? Siming’s privilege of being able to walk away at any time is almost oozing out like freshly pressed juice. She wants to ask him, Why not see a therapist? You put on a gentle and caring façade to hide the fact that you treat everyone like her shadows. Like a doctor who just walks out of surgery, he leaves a bloodless final line: “But she’s already gone.”

Before her eyes emerges an image of the man’s heart, which gradually hunches over. It feels cruel to even trace its outline roughly. “Aren’t you only supposed to tell me this after we’re in a serious relationship?” Her lips pout into a soft, sweet-scented circle, mimicking the mouth of a vinegar bottle. Jay nods with utter conviction, hands gently reaching for hers then turning them toward him, pulling her into an awkward embrace. It has become unclear who is playing along with whom. I am sorry, he says, thank you, oh my god, it’s so good to have met you. I’m so happy that you like me. Let’s go, where do you want to go next?But we don’t have much time left. It’s getting dark outside. 

 “I’ll pay you by the hour for the overtime. We can probably go to the mall next door—do you want to go shopping?” His hand brushes back and forth through her hair. “Don’t worry, we won’t go to a hotel. Are you scared? Don’t be scared. If only we hadn’t met this way—so I could ask you to look at me in the eyes with a genuine heart, could tell you with more confidence that I don’t want you go. I never expected the chance of meeting someone who wanted to hear me ramble about astronomy instead of real estate investment. I want to tell you more stories about comets. Maybe I can start from the Oort Cloud or the Kuiper Belt.” His words ricochet, but she is no longer listening.

It turns out that even the brilliance of a gem’s lightness must go through an onerous birth. Siming might have used up this month’s share of gentleness: the toothpaste has been squeezed dry, and if she pushes any further, she’d have to cut open the plastic tube. Do you ever think of me as a larger comet, who visits you periodically on my orbital path? But I feel even passing through the perihelion would evaporate me beyond return. “But I’ve got something to take care of at home, thank you. No need for a tip, either. I’ll head home on my own.”

Behind her, the advanced surround-sound speakers of the Space Theater thunder through the air. Siming realizes that her dream, which has just come true, is a fake romance. The fantasy of loving someone feels like something out of a bad romance novel, a cheap, low-grade thrill. She feels her stomach clench and turn into a hummingbird flapping its wings, and an urge to vomit in the planetarium’s bathroom.