how to spend your day in a wong kar-wai film

pretending to be a shopkeeper's assistant in 1995 hong kong

Fallen Angels (1995)

Living in a Wong Kar-wai film is a little like wandering through a series of forgotten memories—fragments of neon lights and the scent of rain hanging in the air. I’ve always wanted to know what it would be like to be the quiet one behind the counter, the one who speaks in sighs and stares longingly at the doorway, waiting for something that may never arrive. I read an old book and played loud music in 1995.

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morning

In the Mood for Love (2000)

It is around 4:45 AM, and the city is just beginning to stir. The morning humidity is thick, like a soft blanket over the streets, and the sound of distant traffic is like a heartbeat in the background. I’m already awake, lying in bed and staring at the cracked ceiling of my tiny apartment, the kind of place that feels more like a box than a home. I brush my hair back, slip into a simple all-black outfit, and lace up my shoes. The shop opens soon, and I need to be there early to sweep the floors and wipe the counters, even though the customers won’t show up until the afternoon.

I step out into the narrow alleyways, dodging the puddles left behind from the night’s rain. The air smells of street food and damp concrete, and everything is tinged with shades of nostalgia, even though I’m living in the moment. The shop is a few blocks away—an old store with a flickering neon sign that has seen better days. I unlock the door, flip the sign to OPEN, and begin. Every movement feels slow, and deliberate, like I’m acting out a Shakespeare scene that’s been played a thousand times before.

I grab a pork bun from the small steamer by the counter. I’m not hungry, but I eat it anyway because it’s routine. I wonder what it would be like to sit across from someone and share this moment, but the shop is quiet, and the only sound is the refrigerator’s hum. I imagine him—the boss. He’s distant, maybe a little older than me, but kind. He never speaks much, but his presence lingers like the Camel Lights in his jacket.

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afternoon, evening

Chungking Express (1994)

It’s early noon and the city is waking up. A few customers wander in and out, but I’m not really paying attention. I’m thinking about him again, the way his fingers brush against mine when he hands me the change, the way he looks at me from behind the counter as if there’s something unspoken between us both. I let myself fall into the fantasy, imagining what it would be like to walk through the crowded streets with him, our hands barely touching but close enough to feel our love. What a dream.

The phone rings, breaking me out of my reverie. It’s him. He’s running late, as usual. He’s caught up in some incident about expired pineapples. His voice is distant, crackling through the receiver, but I don’t mind. The fact that he called at all makes my heart skip a beat. I tell him everything is fine, that the shop is quiet, and that I’ll take care of things until he arrives. After I hang up, I stare at the phone for a moment.

The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the pavement outside. The shop feels empty now, even though it’s still open for another few hours. I’m tired, but it’s the kind of tiredness that sits in my bones, not in my muscles. I lean against the counter, flipping through a magazine, but my mind is elsewhere. I imagine him walking through the door, his shirt slightly wrinkled, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before he looks away. In my mind, I’ve already written the scene a hundred times over, but in reality, it never quite happens the way I want it to. What a dream.

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night

2046 (2004)

It’s late now, and the shop is closed. I’m sitting alone at a small table in a nearby diner, a bowl of noodles in front of me. The steam rises, fogging my glasses, but I don’t bother wiping them clean. I eat slowly, savouring the taste, but not enjoying it. I imagine him sitting across from me, his fingers brushing against the table as he reaches for his drink. The two of us won’t say much, but the silence would be comfortable, like the space between two people who understand each other well.

I walk back to my apartment, the green and yellow lights reflecting off the wet streets. The city feels like it is alive, breathing in the night air, but I feel detached from it all like I’m watching a film unfold in slow motion. I wonder if he’s thinking about me, the way I admire and respect him. But I know that’s a fantasy, just like everything else. I slip into bed, pull the thin sheet over my body, and close my eyes. The sound of the city fades into the background, and sleep, dreaming of a love that may never come.

But maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be different.

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“Love is all a matter of timing.” — 2046, Wong Kar-wai