Fuzhou mooncakes flake like croissants. We dust off crumbs before biting into melon seed filling. So sweet, we giggle. So dry, we air vomit. Chang’e is watching, they warn. We wipe our oily hands on our shirts, wondering if she notices crumbs drifting between threads. No eating upstairs. We lock the door, sniff our hands, inhale butter and lotus and jujube, spill our stomachs onto the ground. No one will find out, we nod. Footsteps grow louder. We dust the floor, wipe the table, reach into each other’s esophagi, pull each other empty.