Him / Her / Ah Ming
Him
Sometimes we fell asleep against the wall in a corner of the library. I would hold his arm; he contorted himself into some awkward posture, as though trying to make his height reachable for my shoulder. I always thought it was futile. Even if he shifted his waist forward a few centimetres, I still had to sit bolt upright to barely reach. He told me early on that he did not like me, that he had only been looking after me because I seemed lonely; but I knew he still liked me, at least a little.
There is a mole two or three centimetres above his collarbone. I know this because the night before last, when he walked me home, I hugged him at the crossing by the river. It was almost funny: to find the right moment I had stood facing him for ages, until he grew suspicious and asked what was wrong. I said nothing, took my phone from the right pocket of my coat and snapped a photo of him, saying look how beautiful the sunset is on your hair, and handed the phone over. He took it with his left hand (I only learned that night that he was left-handed), double-tapped, and seemed to study the picture carefully. That was when I noticed the mole above his collarbone, and I hugged him. My ears burned, though I could not be sure it was because of him; my ears run hot for no reason anyway.
Walking home I saw winter’s shadow slipping out of the pub’s skylight as white fog. I listened to Industries of the Blind, a track called ‘I Just Wanted to Make You Something Beautiful’, but a woman’s child beside me kept crying, and no amount of volume could drown it out. I sat down on the long brown bench by the cobblestoned path along the river, deciding to wait until they had gone before heading home. It must have been the streetlamps, painting the cobblestones a faint grey; on the river, boat after boat, and on the boats so many sleeping ducks. Is one always sentimental at moments like these? Only then did I begin to wonder whether I should not have hugged him, whether he found my closeness repulsive. But when we slept in the library and I held his arm he never said a word, so surely it was fine. Thinking about that led to everything else. Should I not have worn a skirt; I felt that he would prefer a girl with a more androgynous look. Back home I had cut my long hair short for this very reason. I have always been like this: every time I do something foolish, I turn around and immediately regret it. When we parted today I did not look back; he probably did not look back either. If I had not hugged him so abruptly, would things be different. I am always turning things over like this, speculating about other people’s thoughts; he once told me this was not healthy. Fine.
By yesterday morning, when the sun came up, I knew that I had ruined things, because he usually said goodnight but the whole night he had not replied. I sat on the red fabric sofa all morning; sunlight through the skylight carved a bright gold square on the grey carpet. I watched the square crawl from the desk to the living room door, and just as it was about to reach the corner of the wall, he replied. Around half past eleven, perhaps. He asked if I was free today. I said yes. He said good. We agreed on an independent coffee shop on the cobblestoned road. Then yesterday passed in a daze. Did not open my textbook, did not practise archery; the only thing that happened in the afternoon was discovering the printer was out of ink, so I went to Ryman and bought two black cartridges and one colour. The printer consumes ink at an appalling rate. Then in the evening I tried to eat properly, but I had no appetite; I could not even finish pork chop rice. I went to Wasabi and bought a cup of milk tea that was, as expected, terrible, came home and sat on the sofa again, lights off, watching moonlight carve a pale yellow wedge of cream cake on the grey carpet. Before bed I thought I should at least try studying. I spread the textbook open on the desk, and then I cried for a while. Late at night I lay in bed, half asleep, and saw his goodnight message. This morning I felt a little better. I wore jeans, went to Costa and bought a Duck Wrap; at the till the cashier seemed to be staring at my eyes. After eating I went to the bathroom mirror and found my eyes were swollen. I thought, this will not do; today I am supposed to see him. We had agreed to meet at half past ten; I arrived at quarter past. What followed happened as it had to. He told me we had grown too close, that it made him uncomfortable. He asked, had he not told me a long time ago that he did not like me. I said I know. I did not know how to explain to him the fact that in my heart I felt he liked me. One explains these things or one does not; it changes nothing. He seemed to finish his caramel cortado deliberately fast; my macchiato was only half done. He said he wanted to leave, that he did not want to see me for a while. I said I would walk with him, and stood up. He did not refuse, which made me feel he surely still liked me, at least a little, right? I was quiet the entire way, and did not know why I suddenly did not want him to notice I was there. I felt wronged: why had I hugged him; it was all because I was stupid that things had turned out this way. And yet I felt he was being cruel: no matter how much he disliked the hug, it did not warrant this severity. But when we passed the crossing by the river again, the sunlight fell on his brown curly hair. For that instant, I still thought he was beautiful.
Her
The woman had been crouching there for a while.
I say a while because the sky was already half-lit. When she came running, the headlights from the main road turned the fallen leaves purple, and her shadow overlapped with her shoes. Then she saw me, turned awkwardly, and crouched by the road.
I swear I did nothing. I was only napping on the bow of the boat when she appeared. The way she stared at me made me nervous. I could not bear it, so I retreated inside the boat and watched her through the high porthole.
She looked a little lost. I had no way of knowing what was wrong with her, obviously. But the way she hung her head was pitiful, and I felt a sadness beginning in my own chest. She kept crouching there; I thought she was waiting for me. She was not like the others. She needed me. Nobody else would crouch on the bank like this for so long. She looked so gentle, so kind, like
the grass on the riverbank… the morning’s frost wetting my paws.
The sun climbed to a higher angle, and the chill retreated with the shadows of the leaves. She still hung her head. I circled her shoes and rubbed against the heel a few times. She wore gloves, something with a fleece texture. She picked me up. I curled into myself, not regretting it for a moment.
She began to cry. I held as still as I could. Tears fell onto her winter waterproof jacket, trapping the surrounding tree-shadows inside the droplets. I lay curled, listening to her breath and sobs rustling by my ear, and felt I had fallen in love with her.
It was the last day of October. She finished crying, set me back on the riverbank, and never came again.
The grass on the riverbank… the morning’s frost wetting my paws.
Ah Ming
Ah Ming arrived in a rainstorm; now he is gone.
When he first arrived, he liked to sit under the tree in the yard playing his Ibanez acoustic bass. None of us knew what species the tree was. Nor did any of us know what he was playing, though at the time nobody cared. Then one day, while we were cooking in the kitchen, Ah Ming burst in, shot us a panicked glance, and left. We were making sweet and sour pork; I remember this clearly, because it was the first time I saw his eyes. His eyes were so bright. At first I thought he was wearing colour contacts. It was only later I learned that they were that bright, like autumn afternoon sunlight piercing a leaf riddled with insect holes.
Later, I too grew fond of sitting under the tree, listening to him play that song. I never did ask him its name. A Japanese song, probably. The way he held the bass was strange, an ineffable awkwardness, as if his elbow were in the wrong place; but since I did not know where the right place would be, I never brought it up.
Later still, we sometimes fell asleep against the wall in a corner of the library. I would hold his arm; he contorted himself into some awkward posture, probably trying to make his height reachable for my shoulder. The library had not yet switched on the heating in early autumn; he held a biology book full of illustrations, and told me he did not really understand it. I said then why the hell are you reading it. Then we said nothing, and the afternoon passed.
After winter set in, we would take the train to Edinburgh together. The platform was veiled in fog; two children ran past us and disappeared beneath the pale yellow pillar at the far end. It takes no time at all; we did not even finish two films. We were watching Linklater’s Before Sunrise, and then the sequel. He loved Edinburgh, I think. I preferred St Andrews. But that was fine; he came with me later. On the sea wall at St Andrews we drank the first bottle of alcohol of my life, and then he called his parents long-distance. Over the water, white flecks of snow drifted, dissolving somewhere far off where no one stood.
Then things became strange. The whole thing had been strange from the beginning, and somehow the tree in the yard had grown a full canopy of new leaves. Ah Ming and I said goodbye one afternoon. Afterwards I made dinner with friends. It rained heavily while we ate; Ah Cheng swore and said the rain was too heavy for him to get home. We consoled him. Then I remembered that Ah Ming liked rainy days. I glanced out the window: headlights kept throwing the shadows of some climbing vine onto the uneven wall. After dinner we all went to someone’s flat to drink. Ah Cheng got blind drunk; in the end we walked him home together. It was past midnight by the time I got back; I went to bed without showering. That day was roughly the last day of winter. February ended just like that.
Ah Ming is gone now. I still think of him, sometimes.
Originally published in Chinese as 「他」, 「她」, and 「阿明」 on 阿莫東森的無聊生活.
