Through months of his zealous, painstaking efforts on the guitar, as well as his seclusive, almost obsessive way of reading, Bing felt himself a sounder and better person than before, though his outward appearance gave little indication of that.
Most of the time he stayed in the dormitory for his hobby, mainly in the afternoon when his roommates were out for various activities. His finger pads of his left hand, that had to press hard on the guitar strings, were often bruised blue, sometimes bleeding. But the constant friction made the skin thicker and the calluses began to ease the pain.
His skills improved steadily. By the mid-autumn of 1988, he was able to play at least five or six pieces with confidence. His favourite, also the first he had practised, was ‘Romance De Amor’. It was this melody he had heard another student playing that had inspired his interest in guitar. At the beginning, he had no knowledge of music tunes and notes, but he accepted the challenge, bought the beginner books and a collection of guitar classics, inching on his learning progress like cutting a pine tree.
One afternoon, during the break of the class, Bing, with his eyes bent on the desk, was absorbedly doodling two slogans on a piece of paper, ‘Long live Mao Tse-tung’s thoughts’ and ‘Long life to the victory of the great cultural revolution’.
‘Hi, Wang Bing…’
He was startled, looking up to find Vivian standing before him. ‘…Yes?’
‘I often heard you playing guitar, very well.’
‘No, only a little,’ he rushed to keep his modesty, feeling his cheeks warmed up by her unusual attention.
‘Very good, indeed,’ she gazed at him steadfastly, ‘look, Wang Bing, we are going to have a party to welcome the fresh students of this year. Could you perform one or two songs to represent our class?’
‘Me?’ Bing asked incredulously. He never had an idea of performing.
‘Yes, there is still a month to go, you can choose two songs to practise during the month.’ She smiled to encourage him, ‘Don’t be afraid, you can do it well; anyway, let me know okay?’
Without waiting for more words from him she left. Gazing at her back, her skirt and elegant sandals, he was stifling a surprise that seemed too big for him. She had never talked to him or smiled at him in this manner; her close and intimate words were still lingering in his ears through the rest of the day.
Hesitating as he was, he couldn’t refuse but challenge himself. What an excitement, and what an expectation from her! Maybe in the bottom of his heart, he had been anticipating such a chance, such an opportunity to prove himself, to claim a better and truer form of him among his classmates, especially before Vivian, even if, according to his roommates’ gossip, she was already being courted by a post-graduate student, even if his secret admiration for her had long been subdued and moderated to indifference under the shell of his everyday life.
Next day, after losing a good night’s sleep, he told Vivian, bashfully, that he would play two classics, ‘Romance De Amor’ and ‘Pigeon.’
The practice in following weeks was fierce and enthusiastic. His roommates, proud that someone from their room was to perform in the prominent, once-a-year party, supported him and encouraged him, already giving him a lot of praise and hand claps.
The day finally came. Sensitive as he had always been, the nervousness and fear, as well as a desire to be successful, were immense, especially in the last few hours prior to the evening party. He felt like a young bird perching on a cliff, about to dive into the depth of a misty valley.
His name being announced, he went out to the stage to face the vast audience. The stage fright was tangible; he felt his body, unlike his own, floating over to the stool.
He sat down. It was very quiet, the world was listening.
He placed the guitar on his lap, holding it in the way as he had done hundreds of times. But today, the case, the solid shape, was more like a baby, a soul mate who had to caress him, soothe the hiccups of his tumultuous feelings.
The silence was unbearable.
In a few more seconds, the sound started out from the chamber, the Romance streaming into the air, into the hollowness of eagerly waiting attention.
He was soon absorbed and locked into a union with the body he was holding. The body was now an intimate friend, or even a lover, so close to the chambers of his heart; he was making love, in a meadow, in a golden field, in a hill full of wild azaleas. His fingers kissed her face and her limbs, and her heart was responding to him with sweet melody. The rough energy that had previously frightened him was reformed, moderating into a singing stream.
The applause was overwhelming; he knew he had done well, for he had a feeling much stronger and more beautiful than ever before. With his new-found confidence, he announced the title of the next piece into the microphone. He had been too nervous to give the name of the first one.
The next tune had a different emotional attachment for him. While the first one was between a couple of lovers, Pigeon, as he comprehended, was more about the dynamics of fluctuating nature, symbolized by a pigeon’s wings. However, during the time of his performance, and through the deftness of his fingers, he saw instead a swallow in the sky, circling, swooping, twittering, over the fields and hills, and in the nest inside the house.
It was indeed a success. He felt a fresh triumphant exaltation he had never felt before. It was, in a sense, very different from the moment he had experienced when he saw his father waving the university entry notice. To think he was applauded by so many people, the elite of society, from almost every corner of China, instead of a small group of villagers.
Vivian warmly congratulated him, but it was done, in Bing’s keen regard, in rather an impersonal way. It seemed to him that her words were not to him, not to a soul of a person, but only to the fact he had done something reasonably well. In her voice, in her expression, there was little admiration for him; she would have said the type of congratulation to any other performers.
However, after this latest development, his confidence built up dramatically, and with his inflated self, he began to fancy that he could approach her by writing her something, a letter perhaps, to express himself. One evening, in a classroom, he carefully, in a kind of boyish ardour, wrote her an English poem:
The stream
I am a pebble
Hardy and sleek
You are the flow
Hurry and fleet
I am grass
Humble and dim
You are the pye-weed
Up in the supreme
I am a frog
Making a noise
You are the fish
Flinging a poise
He put it into an envelope and kept it in his bag. Many a night, when he was lying in bed, he was very positive he would give the letter to her the next morning. But as soon as he finished brushing his teeth, his courage would fail him. After a few such vain efforts, he gave it up, and when he read it again, he found it very stupidly written. In the end, he threw it into a bin.
Her dating with a post-graduate student, as so gossiped by his roommates, daunted him further. It was later confirmed by a chance of sighting her walking together with a guy, as tall as him but stronger. So that was her boyfriend, he said to himself, sombrely.
However, both he and Kang, now sophomores, were not as insignificant as the year before. Kang was a good basketball player, winning many battles in the tournament within and outside their campus; and Bing, since his superb performance at the party, had somehow earned the nickname from some of his fellows as ‘the prince of guitar’. But he knew this title was too much for him. His skills were far below his own level of satisfaction. During that time, he also tried some popular songs, like the well-known ‘Being Late’, which was initially played by Zhang Xing, a celebrated guitar player of the time. More students began to invite him to perform at parties, and they seemed to prefer pop songs to the classics. But Bing didn’t sing well enough; his voice lacked the depth of satisfactory expression, and he seemed to feel less when he had to sing at the same time. After all, his face was not handsome, nor sentimental. The only one song, he had confidence to sing with his guitar was ‘I have nothing’, originally sung by Cui Jian. To Bing, it was a kind of shouting, with a forceful and shrill utterance, especially after a couple of bottles of beer. He suspected he was inclined more towards the type of songs in the movie ‘Red Sorghum’. And with the alcohol influence, he was less self-conscious of the voice quality, and able to turn himself into a separate, wilder self that was somehow repressed by his excessive sensitivity while in soberness.
At a meeting organized for the fellow students from Sichuan province, a girl from Chongqing, a fresh student who must have seen his first performance at the party, was showing him great admiration.
‘Oh, you are the one who played guitar at the party; how could you play it so well!’ she said, her eyes beaming, her surprise exaggerating, ‘and you are our country-fellow!’
Bing was amused, ‘Hehe, you think there shouldn’t be any good guitar players from Sichuan?’
‘No, no, don’t get me wrong. Our Sichuan is a place where many talents and artists have been born,’ she said gladly. ‘We are just very proud of you.’
Her name was Chen Fang. She wore a one-piece skirt, white but black-dotted, with two straps over her shoulders. Short-haired, round-faced, shallow-dimpled, and with a body much fuller than that of Vivian’s, she looked very happy and friendly.
‘What is your major?’ asked Bing. ‘Me, English.’.
‘Japanese,’ she smiled, deepening her dimples. ‘I had hoped I could get into English, but it was very hard.’
The country-fellow gathering was considered the best social activity at the university. Within the group, students felt a sense of belonging based on their origin, sharing the same type of food and dialect, passing much of their idle time together, especially during holidays and festivals.
By this time, Bing had learnt a bit of dancing, but he didn’t particularly like it. The music, played by the cassette stereo, was rough and poor, not quite agreeable to his ears that had been trained and refined through his guitar practice. And his shyness, when inviting the girls with whom he desired to dance, still troubled him. For him, it was impossible to imitate those brave boys, who seemed almost dragging the girls away after a pretentious inviting gesture, without even waiting for the signal of their assent. The manner was considered rude and indecent; but ironically, the girls tended to yield to such coercive behaviour, especially those prettier ones who would usually sit cold and heedless to polite invitation, or simply decline with a short syllable. He had been humiliated this way a couple times, feeling so terribly ashamed that he had to escape from the place all at once.
The dance room was actually the teacher’s canteen. Every weekend, the dining chairs and tables were pushed back to the wall, and a stereo cassette, with a limited number of tapes, would play the songs repeatedly. The little lights, hanging from the roof or across the windows, were flashing, winking, luring the young dancers into a mood of imaginable desire and fantasy.
Shangwai had substantially more girls than boys, and due to the fact that it was close to other universities such as the more renowned Fudan and Tongji, its dance parties always attracted many male students from outside the Shangwai’s territory. At their intrusion, the boys at Shangwai would feel sour and bitter, but they couldn’t deny them the entrance. For the similar reason, the female students of Shangwai would flock out to dance in Fudan or Tongji where the boys were more, and considered the preferable choices for courtship, creating a phenomenon that the girls of Shangwai, in their best skirts, got on the bus going out, whilst boys from other universities, in neat suits and even ties, got off exactly the same bus coming in.
His friend Kang never showed an interest in dancing; he preferred reading Kongfu novels when he was not at his basket-ball training. So, Bing would always go by himself, and most of the time find Fang, with other girls and boys she knew, already there. Fang was very interested in dancing, keen to learn from him, who knew only slightly better than her of the common three or four steps. Every time a new song began, it seemed to him she sat there waiting for him. The instinct of a nineteen-year-old told him she liked him. But did he like her? The answer would certainly be yes, if, at the time, his mind was not distracted by Vivian. Fang was such an agreeable company; in her eyes, there was a good reflection of his own pride he could enjoy, whilst from Vivian he received nothing.
‘Hehe, Chen Fang, when you dance, you need hold up your head, do not look down at your feet,’ he reminded her, when she again bent to mind her steps. ‘Try to feel the music beat, and sense the start of each rhythmic cycle to advance.’
She raised her face, smiling, ‘But if I don’t look at my feet, I am afraid I will step on you.’
‘Don’t worry, if you step on me, you won’t possibly hurt me, because you are not as heavy as me,’ he said, then wondering how he could say these words like notes of music, and even with a little sense of humour.
‘No, I must be heavier than you, don’t you see I am fat, and you are so tall and thin.’
‘You are not fat at all, only… em, what word is it?’ he was deliberating his question.
‘What word?’
‘Hehe…’
‘What? Tell me, don’t tease me,’ she said lovely.
‘Fullness, or richness? Well, I don’t know.’
‘Then it is fat…’
‘No, don’t confuse yourself, you know it is different,’ he rushed to deny.
She said no more, but the way she looked at him was subtly different. Then she stepped on his left foot.
‘I am sorry,’ she said quickly, her hand tightening on his shoulder, ‘did I hurt you?’
‘Not at all,’ he replied, feeling her soft waist. ‘Now, follow the first, stronger beat of the three...1, 2, 3; 1, 2, 3…’
When the music ended, he sat on the chair. Another Sichuan fellow invited her for the next dance. The song being played was ‘Follow the feeling’. Bing saw her figure moving about on the dance floor, her face like a fresh apple hiding-and-seeking among others. Then she was drowned into the glittering crowd, then the face of Vivian emerged from the corner of his mind.
No, I don’t think I like her, he thought, for a while, then for another, yes, I may still like her. She is so soft, and comfortable; the peaks of her breasts he had lightly brushed when dancing with her were so irresistibly tempting. And the way she looked at him, her attentive, admiring and loving eyes! Suddenly, a surge of sweetness seemed to exalt his spirit; to imagine he was liked and desired by another person, by a girl full of youth and vivacity!
He had almost worked up his egoism to an impulsive arousal, when the music stopped. Coming back to sit beside him, she was smiling, her dimpled cheeks never so rosy and beautiful. Ah, yes, I like her. Why should not I like her or love her? Aren’t her breasts thicker and more appealing to me? And who is Vivian? Who is the vain creature that has to haunt me so much? I have never touched her hands, nor has she ever looked properly at me during the last hundreds of days!
‘Come on, Wang Bing, teach me the four steps…’ She implored him to dance with her.
He rose to his feet, and followed by her, walked far into the centre of the floor. The song was ‘Being late’: You come to my side, bearing your smile, but also stirring in me a good disquiet; for already in my heart lives a girl, gentle and gracious, lovely as well…
The lyrics were amazingly alluding to the two girls in his present mind; but who is who, he didn’t want to know.
Her body was so close to him; one of his hands was on her waist, the other holding her fingers. Indeed, there were a lot of out-of-steps, and he was teaching her the right steps. But his mind was growing lustier and lustier, her waist and the tips of her breasts more and more inviting. He didn’t feel the shame, because he was sure she liked the moments as much as he did.
Acting on an impulsive or as if more upon a changed tune of the song, he pulled her over to him, her breast joining his. On the instant, she resisted, pushing him away, slowly but surely until a decent gap ensured between them. His hot head was then cooled, conceiving a shame that well accorded his rising conscience. But she didn’t break from him; their dance continued, though embarrassedly, they did little more than walked.
They returned to the seats. She still talked to her friends, but less. He didn’t dance any more for the rest of the night, and she didn’t ask him to go with her either. He longed to leave, but chained by manners, he stayed until the end of the party.
For the following weeks, he didn’t go dancing again. Then, one afternoon, on their way back to their rooms, she called him: ‘Hi, Wang Bing.’
He turned to her, a little surprised, ‘Hi, Chen Fang.’
‘It has been a long time since I saw you last time,’ she said, with her usual smile, but with an unusual flush. ‘Anyway, how have you been?’
‘Not too bad, just the usual things,’ he said, lightly, before adding for the sake of speech, ‘how about you?’
‘I still go to dance every week.’
‘You must be very good at dancing now, I am sure.’
‘Not really, nobody taught me.’
He didn’t take up the allusion. They moved on, uneasily in silence.
Then, about to part from him to her own dormitory, she blurted out, ‘Can you go this Saturday?’
Not entirely surprised, he replied almost immediately, ‘All right.’
On the Saturday evening, he find unexpectedly only her in a quiet corner of the dancing room.
‘Where are your friends?’ he asked, looking around to find familiar faces.
‘Oh, they haven’t come tonight,’ she said, her uneasiness seeming to belie her words.
Indeed, she danced well enough; there was no need to teach her any more.
‘As I said, you are much better at dancing now.’
‘Really? If so, I need to thank you for your help.’
‘Well, you know, I have never been a good dancer, hehe…’ he was telling the truth.
‘At least better than me,’ she caught his eyes and held them for a long second.
The night passed gracefully and discreetly. Since the reconciliation, they began to meet each other at least once a week. He wondered if this was so-called courting or merely sharing some time besides their studies. But she appeared more and more attractive to him, except that Vivian, like an unwelcome guest, would visit his mind not infrequently, as if despising his very sexual desire for Fang. And the fact that he was sharing the same class with Vivian was to him a constant disturbance, an irritating and puzzling inner-struggle. Sometimes, in his meditation in the class, he seemed to receive one or two glances from Vivian, vague, derisive, or even flirty if he was not totally mistaken; and instantly afterwards he would assure himself that it was wrong of his going on with Chen Fang. However, as soon as Chen Fang talked to him, asked him to dance with her, or take an after-dinner walk together with her in Lu Xun Park, his resolution wavered. After all, Fang, with much soft feminine charm, was here in front of him, having a real capacity to comfort his mind.
One day, when he and Kang were alone in the room, Kang for the first time broached the topic, ‘Bing, you’ve got a girlfriend.’
‘Well, just a friend, she is my country-fellow, from Chongqing.’
‘She is beautiful.’
‘Is she?’ Bing didn’t seem to believe it.
‘Of course, don’t you think?’ said Kang, ‘I have seen her with you, or sometimes without you, a couple of times. Yes, I think she is beautiful, at least better than most of our classmates.’
‘Well, I would think she is okay, lovely, adorable, but not in that sense of being beautiful,’ he said, matter-of-factly.
Kang, searching something in a bag, said no more, but Bing pursued for a whimsical question, ‘Do you think Vivian is beautiful?’
This was indeed the first time he had, in this manner, mentioned her name to his closest friend.
Without halting his rummage inside the bag, Kang replied, ‘Well, strictly speaking, she is, at least many people would think so. But…’
‘But what?’
‘I mean, her beauty is not something that I will admire, well, I don’t know,’ he said, now turning to him with the pen he had just found out. ‘Or, put in another way, I would not imagine her to be my wife.’
‘Why? Is it because you are still unhappy with her, after that incident last year?’
‘Not, not at all. I have no resentment towards her on that matter any longer. Actually I think she was then doing the right thing.’
‘So, why?’
‘Erhm, maybe she is too showy? Too domineering? I just couldn’t imagine her to be an ideal wife. Haha, what an idea, anyway.’
‘But she must be somebody’s wife in the future, mustn’t she? What type of man could suit her?’ Bing probed it further, allowing his own thoughts have a free go, with a risk of making Kang suspicious of his unwonted interest in her.
‘Well, I don’t know, maybe someone very rich, or very famous.’
Bing was inclined to further explore about Vivian, and Fang, the two women who had so much stimulated his young adulthood, when another roommate came back to curtail their conversation.
The remark made by Kang about Vivian was not entirely groundless. Only someone very famous or very rich might suit her, and no way, in the foreseeable future, could Bing become such a person even if he dared to wish for her at all. The gap, the enigmatic distance between them was very much permanent, impassable by one or two of his personal attainments. Just like Sichuan could never become Shanghai, they belonged to different species, casting no meaningful communication and possible joints on the horizon of their lives.
This conclusion had subdued many distractions caused by thinking of Vivian, when he was alone with Fang.
One evening in the lunar-year holiday period, he kissed her, which was his first time, when they sat on the bench facing the lotus pond in the park.
‘Bing…’ she murmured, in a break amid their kisses.
‘Yes?’ he gazed at her, clutching her body inside his army-coat.
‘I like you,’ she said, reaching out her hands to circle under his arms.
Then their kissing exercise, which had scarcely stopped since early that evening, resumed. Fang’s tongue was amazing, soft and live, so juicy and delicate that no flesh of fruits on his village hills could be compared to it. Restlessly, his lips pressed upon and into hers, over her eyelids as well as the shallow of her dimples. He had also tried to caress her breasts, but once, twice and thrice she had pulled his hand away. When they finally stood up from the bench, he was sore all around his mouth, his tongue being in a state of dull anguish.
After the first time, they kissed whenever they got the chance. They danced as well, their bodies more often than not brushing and rubbing each other, with the tips of her breasts teasing his manhood, acutely.
He then became less and less happy when she pushed his hands away from her breasts, more and more reluctant to maintain the same routine. But Fang’s passion had shown no diminishing; she would always, like her first time, kiss him eagerly, fondling his face more lovingly than ever, saying the same thing that she liked him, that she had liked him at her first sight of him, and that she admired him so much with his guitar performance. He smiled at her, thinking that she was just telling the truth.
But his desire was growing exponentially for her breasts, now heaving so seductively within his reach. Yet she continued to deny him, and yet he could not use any force. His gut was exploding and pent up, but she was allowing none of his adventure.
On leaving the park, he, in his quiet resentment, decided in his secret mind he would not go out with her any more. Then, as if she had the sixth sense, when nearing the main entrance of the university, she stopped and pulled him over to her, leaning against a big Wutong tree on the road.
‘Bing?’ she said, looking into his eyes. ‘You are not happy.’
‘No, why, I am okay.’
‘No, you are not.’
Dejected as he was, Bing said no more, dropping his hands by their own gravity; Fang, in her effort, wrapped her arms round his neck, wanting to kiss him again.
He didn’t respond well to her demanding lips.
Then, suddenly and abruptly, as if she was angered, she withdrew her hands from him. He felt she was about to leave him, going away with her girlish indignation. But she was not leaving. She grabbed his two hands and pressed them on her breasts.
His eyes were as if set on flame, gleaming like aroused fireflies.
Under the green-light signal of hers, his hand went to her collar-bone, then down under her clothes towards her flesh. While with another exertion, she encircled him and pulled his body, harder and closer to her, as if it had been hers and she was claiming it back into her own frame.
The touch, under the brassieres, was anything or nothing one was able to imagine.
The road was dimly lighted by the lamp, attached high up to the pole. The air was chilly. Some cars were passing by loosely. Around the place, there was no pedestrian; even if there was, Bing couldn’t care less. After a while, he felt rather inconvenient for him to cup her in this manner. So he lifted and pulled away his hand from her, and went again from under her shirt, to reach and obtain her by her front. He did this quickly lest she stop him half way. But she didn’t, and even if she did, he would force himself onto the destination; nothing was able to put out a fire that had already flared up.
Fang was now at a total loss. She was losing herself, her body writhing in his handful pressure, and the only way he could steady her was to press her hard enough onto the stem of the Wuton tree.
He reached out one hand, breaking through her sash, down to her back, testing the coolness and vastness of her surface. Again, she didn’t stop him. Her breath was thick and heavy; then, all at once, without warning, she moved her hand down, inserted it through his belt, to inside his pants. She caught him...
Then he felt he couldn’t tolerate this any longer; something savage and reckless growing in his mind. A madness and insanity, or a type of cancer probably, like his second naked self, possessed him, taking over his sense and all the worldly conviction. He released his hand from her breast, pushing hard to rid her of her pants. The zip was ripped open, her pants slipping. She uttered a low whinging, panic like a shocked animal. She pulled one of her hands out from him, the other off his neck, rushing all the way to collect her pants. But she was a second late, for at this time, he had already exposed himself, blocked her path, closed hard against her bareness. In the midst of her struggle, he lowered his body groping for her field, finding it very hard to locate the entrance. It was indeed a very strange and muddled area, not as clear as he had imagined, very confusing, not at all like the cattle or monkey mating he had once witnessed. And the way she stood didn’t help the least; she was just so damned tight, without any chink for his breaking in. Then in his frustration, with his evil energy of his knees, he forced to widen her legs. She didn’t seem to resist him, or she must have been too scared by his frenzy, or, more likely he had already lost his senses to feel her resistance. With his frantic jerking he tried again, and vaguely, he felt it was finally entering, but then, no, it was still on the creased surface.
Desperate, straining, his heart aching, a sensible thought sneaked to his mind, asking him to give up. But then another stubborn voice came to wedge, to square his animal spirit, driving him to risk, to destroy and die.
He straightened up, settling a bit, panting, feeling a sudden pity for her, and more for himself. He started to kiss her, with a real love-feeling, with a slowness he was possibly managing.
She was crying.
And with her tears, her face was softening, so was her mouth, so were her breasts, so was her will, so was her entrance. Then he found it, feeling it. It was just a kind of openness in a body. Why was it so hard? Why had it to be so confusing? But it was hard, even if he was certain he was on the right path. Therefore, force was needed, a courage, a manhood, a kind of suffering was also essential. He jerked, ripped it through, feeling the scraping with a pain. She was shaking, and then with a broken and lost cry uttering from her throat, from the pit of her mystery womanhood, she was fulfilled, entire and complete.
He pushed his last drop of life into her. Then he remained inside her for a long time. His bent knees and his feet felt very tired and weak. The blood was circulating, abating. And, with his army-coat covering around her body, protecting her skin from the ugly, rough barks of the Wutong tree, their pants under their knees should not be so obvious to the careless observers, if any, on the road.
However, he was still confused; he felt it was too quick; he didn’t seem to have enjoyed it as much as he had desired. But all the same, he was retreating, against his will.
At last he slipped off from her. Holding her gently, he kissed her thankfully and gratefully for her sacrifice. They stood like this for some time. She was still in tears, so he had to kiss her repeatedly to express his sorrow.
And with her hands, she banged a number of times on his back. Then, strangely, he felt his desire coming back again. Oh, he was rising again.
He entered her a second time, much easier. He gave her his strength, gave her all he could, thrusting and hitching, with the insatiable utterance that was deluging his shell of existence. He didn’t have a mind, nor any knowledge, he was but inside her, shrouded by the split walls of one flesh. It was warm and sticky; he was taking her, filling her emptiness, battling in the field that she must have defended so seriously in her life.
Weakening, no longer could she kiss him, no longer could she leave her eyes open. ‘Er…’ the sound was coming from her teeth, husky and incoherent, but it gave him a sudden trigger of eruption.
He let go a freedom, a gate of a dam, a latch of a door, a window of life; it went over his head, through his fingers, flowing to mix with her liquid of life, in a time and a space that was infinite.
‘Bing, I love you…’ she said, her fingers ironing his flesh.
He kissed her mouth to silence her.
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