Not an environmental activist then, more a scientist cum conference junkie, playing the circuit like a mid-level bureaucrat. Which you were, also, I guess. I resisted the tempation to call you Zero in public, noting that every delegate whose tears you wiped away referred to you only as Mr Moon. Zero Moon, red wine circling in plastic cups. Mr Zero. Empty Moon. I’m Jenny, I said. You said ‘Jet’, not ‘Jenny’. At least it sounded like that. You know the rest. Okay, okay. Yes. It was then that I became Jet. Though it would be several months before we saw each other again, in a desperate Incheon airport lounge reunion. In your mouth, at least. Like watching my own image on a television set. An identity not yet written on any passport, nor in secret code. I looked up conference dates in my own field, tried to align the airlines’ constellations to augur the interaction well. Clearing customs and then embracing you in one swift movement. Even the chirruping of OT mobiles stopped for an instant as we hit. Your absent kiss a sky filled with empty moons.