38Leaving his car in the parking lot, Weng takes his flute and strides across the park to the tunnel under the road and out to the trees near the Asian Civilization Museum. He turns left and walks across the bridge to the Fullerton Hotel, the grand old dame that used to be the city’s premier post office. But the dame is hemmed in now, towered over and dwarfed by the multi-storey office blocks and banks. He strides down the sidewalk, past the shuttered bars and restaurants of Boat Quay and then on to Clarke Quay, trying to shake off the restlessness that’s keeping him awake. It’s impossible not to think of her now that she’s back. He stops at the spot where the creek used to be, where the two of them had fished and swum and kissed before he made a bonfire of her letters, before the creek wa
