Chapter 2: Egg Coffee Flavor
After the clay-streaked afternoon, Ngan did not return home. She stopped by Giang, slipped into a small alley and climbed to the second floor, looking for a familiar hidden corner overlooking the hurried crowd. The space here was thick with the smell of roasted coffee, quiet and old. This was her refuge, a quiet oasis in the middle of noisy Hanoi.
She had changed. The plain linen dress had been replaced by a cream silk blouse and wide-legged culottes. The style was still conservative, but the rich silk gently slid over her skin, following her curves, whispering of a hidden elegance and sensuality. She sat there, deliberately alone, lost in her own world.
The egg coffee was brought out. The golden cream, as smooth as honey, covered the dark black coffee. She did not stir. That was her rule. She used a small spoon to carefully scoop out a layer of egg cream. The rich, sweet taste, rich in the smell of eggs, melted on the tip of her tongue, a pure indulgence. Only after tasting that sweetness did she take a sip of the black coffee below. The strong, sharp bitterness rushed straight up, awakening all her senses.
“You have to have the sweetness first, to bear the bitterness later,” she thought. It was not just the way she drank her coffee, it was the way she lived.
The peace and quiet was comforting, but it was also starting to itch. The itch of boredom, the itch of travel, of touch, of connection. She scrolled through her phone, a series of group chats popping up.
“Ceramic Lovers Association”: Are you going to Bat Trang next weekend, everyone?
She curled her lips. Bland.
“Weekend Reading Club”: Review ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ everyone.
Tired. She was in no mood to pretend to be profound.
“Hanoi Trekking Club”: Let’s make a deal to hunt for white mustard flowers in Moc Chau at the end of the month! Only 15km, newbies can do it.
Her eyes lit up. Moc Chau. White mustard flowers. 15km. She imagined the smell of morning dew, the smell of wild mountains and forests, the smell of sweaty bodies. Interesting.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard, typing a reply. A coquettishness calculated down to every letter, every punctuation mark.
“Ugh, trekking? I’m so weak, I’m afraid I can’t keep up with everyone… :(”
She pressed send, then turned her phone face down on the table, cutting off all communication. She knew what would happen. Some guy, some willing “hero,” would read her weak request. He would send a private message, promising to “take care,” to “wait,” to “guide.”
Ngan smiled, a satisfied smile. She used her spoon to scoop another layer of sweet custard cream, and continued to enjoy her cup of coffee. The prey would fall into the trap. All she had to do was sit here, savoring the sweetness, before facing the bitterness of real life.
Ngan’s apartment is not a house. It is a glass cage on a high floor, overlooking a feverish Hanoi at night. Outside, bright lights, incessant car horns, a river of life. Inside, absolute silence, cold and polished to a shine.
She walked in without turning on the lights.
It was a ritual. She stood in the shadows, letting the silence of the glass cage swallow her. The silence here smelled of loneliness. Of lemon-scented floor cleaner, new leather, and sterile filtered air. It did not smell of life.
She stood there, letting the cheerful mask of the day fall off, falling to the invisible floor. All that remained was a tired body, and a soul gnawed by its own emptiness.
She turned on a yellow lamp. The dim light was not enough to warm her, it was just enough to expose the coldness of the white walls, the oversized leather sofa. She went to pour a glass of water. The sound of water flowing from the faucet was sharp. The glass made a dry “clack” sound when it was placed on the marble table, a sound unfamiliar in her own home.
Those were the sounds that proved her lonely existence in this shell.
She sat down on the sofa and opened her phone. The screen lit up, a cold window. The message she had sent to the trekking group appeared: *”I’m so weak…”*
An almost invisible smile crossed her lips. She didn’t need their answers. She needed a reason to go.
She stood up, determined. Action was the only cure for loneliness. She walked into her bedroom, opened her closet. A world of silk, of perfectly tailored clothes to hide. She ignored them.
She knelt down and pulled out a large box from under the bed. Dusty. Forgotten.
She opened it. Inside was another world. The smell of rubber, of canvas, of dry earth. Hiking boots, windbreakers, trekking pants… These were not clothes. These were another skin, another identity.
She began to pack. One by one, she took out her things and laid them on the bed. Each action was a declaration of war against the silence. She was not running from solitude. She was running from stillness.
And this trip, was a perfectly planned escape.