After a long while, Jiang Wanju finally asked, “And what does he want?”
Chen Zhouren said, “To bathe with you.”
Jiang Wanju sank the lower half of her face into the water. Gulu gulu—she blew air out through her nose, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. After a long moment, she said, “Then come in.”
It was an invitation. Jiang Wanju knew exactly what Zhouren wanted. She sat in the warm bath openly, without hiding herself at all. Her shoulders were pale, even slimmer than the last time he had seen her.
She really had lost a lot of weight—stretching out bit by bit, growing taller, slender and beautiful.
Zhouren didn’t jump straight to the point. He placed his hand on the edge of the tub, cupped the back of her head, and kissed her. He liked the posture where he could guide her completely; even if she struggled, he could still press her back into place. But after being apart from her for so long, his movements were noticeably gentler—probing, testing, deep then light, like the trembling reflection of a lamp in rippling water, widening in rings.
Not enough.
Jiang Wanju opened her eyes to look at him.
Still not enough.
Zhouren tightened his hold.
Not enough, not enough.
Jiang Wanju closed her eyes, her wet lashes trembling.
Nowhere near enough.
Just before she called his name, Zhouren abruptly let go. Wanju tried to hook him closer with her toes.
He didn’t budge. He teased her, refusing to give in until she said the words he wanted to hear—only then did he satisfy her.
Jiang Wanju didn’t want to think too much. She emptied her mind, letting herself sink fully into the moment—right here, right now. She needed someone to fill the cluttered, restless thoughts in her head. She needed an embrace. She needed to push out all the pent-up anxieties.
This time, they didn’t share a cigarette. Wanju wanted one, but Zhouren didn’t let her. Instead, he poured a glass of alcohol and handed it to her. “Health tonic.”
Jiang Wanju stared at the drink. “A health tonic that helps me meet the King of Hell earlier?”
Chen Zhouren laughed. “A little alcohol helps you relax and sleep well.”
For all his faults, he had never truly lied to Jiang Wanju—well, except for those olives he insisted wouldn’t ruin her. But Wanju didn’t break, and she didn’t rot; she lived, peeled herself off him, and survived.
Leaning against Zhouren’s hand, Wanju lazily finished the drink. For the last sip, Zhouren tilted the glass, but she couldn’t finish it in time. The alcohol slid down the corner of her lips. She coughed. Zhouren leaned down and carefully drank the drops from the edge of her mouth.
He asked, “Do you need my help to make the alcohol work faster?”
Jiang Wanju hooked her arms around his neck.
They messed around several times. Outside, snow piled thickly. The television in the living room was on, broadcasting emergency weather updates, warning people to reduce travel and prepare food and water for the blizzard…
No one cared.
Even if there were nothing left to eat, Chen Zhouren would tear his own flesh off and feed it to Jiang Wanju—and then, mercilessly, collect what was owed in return.
Jiang Wanju was addicted to the pleasure of being with her first lover. And Chen Zhouren was drawn to her, addicted as well—unable to quit, unwilling to quit, simply raising the addiction like a living thing.
The blizzard lasted two days.
There was plenty of food and water in the house, and no electrical issues. Outside, the snow was thick like giant rice cakes, high up to their calves. In a country where strikes were tradition and people joked about hanging capitalists from streetlamps, snowplows definitely wouldn’t run in such weather.
Wanju put on Zhouren’s thick clothes and stomped into the snow to play. Wearing thick gloves, she built a snowman and used her foot to write his name in the snow:
“Chen Zhouren”
Unhappy, Wanju rolled up several snowballs and threw them at him. Dodging with a grin, Zhouren found a clean patch of snow and drew an orange beside it, writing neatly:
“Jiang Wanju”
Behind Zhouren, she attempted to draw a crooked, wobbly dog—regrettably, she was no snowfield artist; it didn’t look like anything.
So she added:
“Bad Thing”
Finished, she turned to look.
Chen Zhouren had added something after her name as well:
“Smart Little Devil”
He walked over, took her hand, and carefully drew a big heart in the space between their names.
Jiang Wanju’s eyes stung. The pure white snow made her eyes ache.
She stood up. “Childish.”
Zhouren smiled. “Nothing wrong with being childish.”
With no one around, the two of them worked together to build two big snowmen, leaning against each other. Wanju gave the smaller one her hat. Zhouren removed his own scarf and wrapped it around both snowmen, making them look like two lovers sharing a scarf.
But the snow was freezing. Wanju shivered uncontrollably; her hands and feet were numb. She ran back into the house to warm her hands.
When she happened to look back, she saw that Zhouren was still standing outside.
Wanju pressed close to the glass window. Through the thin frost, she saw Zhouren bend down and gently kiss the little snowman wearing her hat.