Rating: Mature
Written by Carol Jin
Translated by Carol Jin
It wasn’t like what she imagined when it really happened. The room was dark, and the bed was cold. He didn’t follow the steps in the novels, kissing his way down her spine, nor did he gaze into her eyes again and again as if making a pilgrimage, asking softly, “Is it okay?” So she asked herself, silently: Is it okay?
Is it okay?
His breath fell on her nape, raising gooseflesh. But she knew that aside from her skin, nothing else had been stirred. His hair brushed against the edge of her lips — itchy and slightly painful. His face was buried in the crook of her neck and the darkness; she couldn’t make out his expression. Suddenly, a wave of panic rose in her.
She turned to stare at the ceiling, where patches of gray and black blended and merged. She felt her body unfolding, laying bare her innards, nerves, blood — but not her thoughts; never her thoughts. But why not thoughts? She was supposed to love him. A sour nausea steamed up from her stomach, and she couldn't understand where it came from.
She felt heavy, her flesh pressing into the sheets and sinking downward, quickly, quickly, drifting into memory. There she could see his face again, familiar, bland — though bland didn’t seem quite right. She tried to think of a better phrase, rummaging through the past, and found him waiting under an umbrella downstairs from the office building, a faint smile on his lips. She liked that expression of his. Turning back, she saw herself running out of the building in a white shirt and jeans, telling him that he didn’t have to wait for her in the rain. He simply smiled. The memory was bright; she couldn’t help but smile in the darkness, then frowned a little — why did he not bring two umbrellas? She couldn’t remember if she had asked.
“God. Love you,” he suddenly said. Startling her. Love who? Who loves her?
She could hear his breath, and hers. It was too loud, more present than her heartbeat. Is that normal? The breathing louder than the heartbeat? Probably. After all, in stillness you usually hear breathing first. She sank again into memory, recalling the damp sound of their kisses. As for the heart, it was mostly so silent, wasn’t it? Sometimes you might even mistake yourself for dead.
He said something else — about love and romance — and she floated even farther away, tired. Maybe it was just supposed to be this tiring. She kept staring at the ceiling and, without reason, thought of the night-blooming cereus unfolding all its life into the air, the surroundings just as dark. Who did the cereus love? She wondered, not knowing. But she loved the cereus, or at least liked it. Sometimes those two are hard to tell apart.
Like and love. Love and romance. She remembered vaguely an online post she had seen before, saying friendship and kinship could both be love, yet romance might not be love. But romance is the only one of the three that relates to the word "love" forthright — isn't that telling? She had thought that then, and now took it out to rethink, but couldn’t gather all her thoughts. Her thoughts slipped off the bed and scattered on the floor. She didn’t have the arms to reach out and pick them up.
Finally, with a sigh, he said again, “Love you,” as if uttering a magic spell, then remained still. She was scalded by the substantial words and warmth, needing to curl up her body but finding nowhere to hide, only futilely tucking the blanket’s edge around her. He lay on his side, no longer speaking. For a moment, she thought they were playing Statue — a small, harmless game to see who would move first.
She wished they were still playing Statue.
Source:
真正做的时候和她想的并不一样。房间是黑的，床很凉，他没有遵循小说里的步骤一路吻下她的脊骨，也没有一遍遍看进她的眼睛好像在朝圣，轻声问她“可不可以”。于是她在心里问了，对自己。可不可以？
可不可以？
他的呼吸洒在她的后颈，激起一阵鸡皮疙瘩。但她知道除了她的皮肤，什么也没被激起。他的头发刮擦她的唇部边沿，很痒，还有些疼。他的面部深埋在她的颈窝和黑暗里，她看不清他的表情。突然地，她一阵惶恐。
她转而盯着天花板，上面黑灰的色块堆叠在一起，慢慢交融。她感到身体在打开，陈列内脏、神经、血，但不陈列思想——绝不陈列思想。可为什么不陈列思想呢？她应该是爱他的。恶心在她的胃部蒸腾，她不明白这从何而来。
她觉得自己沉甸甸的，肉身压进床单往下坠，很快很快，轻飘飘落到记忆里。在那里她重又能看到他的面容了，熟悉的、温冷的长相。“温冷”？这个形容好像不是很合适。她努力试着再想一个，在往事里挑挑拣拣，看见他打着伞在办公楼下等候，唇边挂着浅浅的笑意。她喜欢他的那个表情。回过头，她看见自己穿着白衬衫和牛仔裤从楼里跑出来，说了他两句什么不必冒雨来接，他只是微笑。这份记忆很亮，她在黑暗里也微笑起来，随即又蹙了蹙眉——他因为什么而不拿两把伞？她不记得自己问没问过了。
“天啊，爱你。”他忽然说。把她吓了一跳。爱谁？谁爱她？
她能听见他吐息的声音，也能听见自己的。那声音有些太响亮了，大过心跳。这是对的吗，呼吸声大过心跳声？大概是对的，毕竟相对安静时先听到的是呼吸声。她又沉进记忆里，回想着之前接吻时听到的湿漉漉的吐息。至于心脏，它大多数时候都是那么沉默，不是吗？以至于有时会让人误以为自己已经死了。
他又说了什么，爱与爱情之类，而她浮动得更厉害了，很累。也许就是会这么累。她继续盯着天花板，无端地想到昙花在夜里绽放，把所有生命挥至空气里，周遭也是这样黑。昙花爱谁？她想，不知道。但她爱昙花，或至少是喜欢。有时候这两者很难分清。
喜欢与爱，爱与爱情。隐约间她想起来之前看过的一个网络帖子，说友情、亲情都可以是爱，唯独爱情可能不是爱。然而，“爱情”是三者中唯一包含“爱”这个字眼的词，这不是很能说明问题吗？她当时便是这么想的，现在又拿出来重新想，却始终没法集中起全部的思绪。她的思绪从床上逃逸出去，散落一地。她也抽不出手去捡。
最终，一声叹息间，他又说了“爱你”，仿佛在说一个有魔力的咒语，随后便停下动作。她被实体的字句和温度烫伤了，想要蜷起身却发现无处躲藏，只好徒劳地掖过被角。他倒在侧边，不再言语。有一瞬间她以为他们在玩石头人，一个小小的无害的游戏，看谁先忍不住动。
她真希望他们还在玩石头人。