Love Baby 1: Not enough time to hug

Author: Ye Qingcheng
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-10-01
Features: There is nothing more gentle, more intimate, or more cruel. That year, Su Zhou fell in love with the red of the new millennium. A long lingerie strap, how many double-layered, multi-petaled red bras would she buy, perhaps only because the sales girl said, "Wearing it inside the wedding dress would look beautiful too." It was the depths of winter. Outside the mall, the night sky was a faint blue, snow falling like silver threads. Suddenly playful, Duan Zheng grabbed a small handful of cold, crumbly snow and shoved it into her neck. The two chased each other for half a block. When they embraced, she saw his temples, slightly glistening, as if dusted with snow, but she knew he knew, too, that it was the first white hair of his youth.
That night, she tried it on as a mirror. The fabric was cool and soft, vibrant red like the imperial palace, with a long string of lace trim in delicate peach red, very folk-like, full of wedding sentiments. She stood still, like a Roman sculpture, and he embraced her from behind. "Su Zhou, let's get married?" she smiled at him in the mirror. "You're already married, how can we get married?" Duan Zheng's hand hesitated, hesitated, and then he let go. Cold, Su Zhou felt a wave of warmth like millet brush over her skin, and an unusual itching and pain at her nipples, as if swarming with thousands of ants. She gritted her teeth and endured it, resisting this hidden five-horse dismemberment that no one knew about.
That night, Duan Zheng told her about a childhood memory: his mother took him, still very young, to a tailor shop to measure for clothes. They entered a small room, and she told him to wait outside. A blue floral curtain fell, and an adult world was closed off to him. He felt abandoned and cried. When he mentioned this, he snuggled close to Su Zhou, as if shrinking to a tiny size, like a baby in the womb. His status as the president of the China division of an international company, his fancy car and luxurious life, all became irrelevant. Su Zhou felt his attachment, steeped in years, like an old satin passed down from the Ming and Qing dynasties, exceptionally warm and entwined. She would not leave him, not at all.
But most of the time, Duan Zheng had eyes that shone like a double-edged sword, no matter how you held them, they would cut you deeply. His phone was always on, but he never answered it. It was inconvenient for meetings, inconvenient for business trips, and even more inconvenient at home. Occasionally, when he did pick up, his tone was perfectly composed, "What's up?" Countless times, Su Zhou deleted his number from her contacts. Yet from morning to evening, from night to dawn, those 11 digits kept wandering in her mind, like a winding mountain road.
But then her phone rang. "Su Zhou, I'm downstairs. I'm taking off at dawn. Please come to the balcony." Su Zhou trembled all over. She put on a large coat over her lingerie and went out. Outside, the sky was frosty and early morning. She looked down and saw Duan Zheng leaning by the car, looking up at her. It was so dark she couldn't see his outline, but she heard Duan Zheng's voice, slightly tipsy, "I just want to see you. Even if this plane gets blown up by terrorists after, I'll be content." Was he drunk? Midlife men weren't that easily drunk, were they? Things said when drunk were always sincere, weren't they? Su Zhou's tears streamed down her face. The balcony was vast and empty, with no mirrors on any side. She couldn't see her own hazy reflection, and thus had no defense against either temptation or her own demons.
Su Zhou was willing to stay in a corner, like a wartime capital, but the days still didn't last long. Her phone rang, playing familiar music, but the voice on the other end was strangers.