I wonder what you are doing. I hope you won't go to a bar, a meeting, a gathering? I hope you don't get the bug. I know you are susceptible-- last time I saw you, you were having a cold. I felt wretched hearing you sniffling, knowing I couldn't help but wished I could. With your throaty voice, no doubt caused by your blocked nose, you yelled and complained about something, some cases--one was mine--that shouldn't belong to the elite category. Poor Dear. I imagined rushing towards you, holding you in my arms, feeding you Pangdahai drinks, comforting you, and lulling you to sleep. I imagined touching your cheeks, too hot, burning my fingers. I imagined watching you sleep. I imagined rewriting the famous folklore of Chang'e and Hou Yi into the story of a rabbit and a monkey--you and me.