(i)
The waiter arranged for him to sit in an empty seat by the sink, just behind the piano, diagonally, with a pot of Malabar chestnuts or something in between, and the player shook his big head like Stevie Wonder, ‘Why she had togo? He whispered and sang along with the piano.
The rockery waterfall in the pool ‘clattered’ and smashed his figure into pieces, reflecting the light, the shadow was not a shadow, he remembered a report today: the Hong Kong media asked the mayor of the horse jogging in the Happy Valley: is it the horse that is running, or is it you who are running? ‘Isn’t that the same?’ Mr. Ma replied. The correct answer is: it’s your heart that runs. This is a fucking case.
He picks up his glass, is it your shadow that’s broken? Or are you broken? The answer is: your heart is broken. And that’s a fucking crime. She never says why, she just avoids you and lets you die. Then she shows up in someone else’s arms and breaks your heart.
‘A woman’s heart is a needle in the bottom of the sea.’ The friend said. ‘Yes!’ He couldn’t think that just one day she was mushy in his arms, letting him kiss her full breasts, begging him to come in, and the next day she was avoiding him. He thought it over and over, pushing every detail of the day, no! No hanging around, no! No woman on the phone, no!
She went home happy. But fuck it, she moved on!
The woman at the next table stared at the lemonade in front of her with her hands on her chin, a drink I’d heard was a favorite of lusty women. Once he ordered lemonade and she laughed at him for being horny too, he took advantage of the small crowd and secretly probed between her legs, which did not close and greeted him wetly, it was a good memory.
Of course, sex is not the only thing that you can do with her, but you can’t squeeze anything else out of your mind that makes more sense, except for the warmth between your legs and the faint scent of breasts. The first time he kissed her in a dark theater, she laughed and pushed away: ‘Hehe, you smell like roast chicken! He ignored it, smelling the sweet smell of cornflakes all the way down, and then she spread out on the seat and let him do whatever he wanted.
The wetness, something he’d never experienced before, was a thin gel, or a thin oil, mixed with a faint perfumed scent, and they were like drops of water on a stalactite, just damp on the stone, not dripping down, and he had to touch it from time to time to feel it lubricate.
The woman looked across the lemonade toward him and he turned his head in embarrassment. The woman also had long hair and wore a tight t-shirt, the shape of her bra clearly visible. He turned back again, but the woman had her head down, looking intently at the glass in front of her, her long hair hanging down over her chest, obscuring her beauty.
‘Only you can appreciate my beauty.’ She said. He excitedly removed her clothing and left her standing in the sunlight that filtered through, the dust from the daylight disappeared before it touched her skin, he noticed her stray hairs and walked over to brush them, she nestled obediently in the crook of his arm and he had to prop her up, his right hand pressing against the wetness.
(ii)
He had to admit, she was as fluffy and delicious as buttercream. Moisture-laden cream that melted into thick lust in his mouth, melted with the juices under his belly, and then, burned fiercely. She nestled in his arms, daylight burning on her left side, and she hooked her arms around his neck, the sweat pouring from her armpits glistening golden on her rounded breasts.
He wanted to penetrate her, but couldn’t spare the pleasure between his fingers, rubbing her waist and hips repeatedly while he was in a celestial battle. She raised her eyes and looked at him in confusion, there was no indecision or fear in them, only a question mark. He wiped away that question mark and buried himself deep in her rainforest.
The lemonade girl bit into the straw, and it was as if he could feel the level of the glass slowly dropping down, even hear the crushed ice gently crashing against the bottom of the glass, and he peered sideways at the bright red lips, the black straw, the clear juice and the glistening, watery glass. She was wordlessly transforming the juice in the glass through the, unseen, thing mike tube. If lemon juice really was a lonely woman’s boon, was it its acidity or its scent that diverted her thoughts of lust, or was it the cold liquid that soothed the hot, stupid swelling?
The girl reached up and ruffled her long hair, revealing half of her broad forehead and the other half of her hair falling to a high point on her chest, a little mysterious, a little flirty, a little windswept, a little seductive. He noticed her feet, unobtrusively peeking out from under the table, slimmer and softer as the thin straps of her sandals wrapped around them.
He’d rather believe that he was her first man, even though she’d told him as much, but he knew full well that it wasn’t really true, that maybe she was just saving her dignity for him, that maybe she saw the fragility of his nature, but he was happy to jump into her trap for as long as she remained by his side.
But she finally abandoned him, he did not know between him and her, in addition to love and what meaning, the memory of her coming and going, and his heart full of waiting, but only for a moment of soul, his endless thought of her, for another crazy lovemaking? Maybe love has no meaning, sex is just a ritual of completion, and any meaning of life or the goal of life is completely unrelated to the two things. Or maybe love does have a meaning, but what is it? Is it just about more power? Or more sex?
At nine o’clock, a set of Bands replaced the pianist and the lead singer’s high pitched voice mimicked Lin’s “Single Love Song,” complete with urban sentimentality, urban nights, and urban lust for love. He pulled a leather manual out of his pocket and tilted his delicate fountain pen on it, it was the girl on the phone’s request, he had to follow her line before he could have her, and of course, he kept his preferences, it was a fair trade.
Nine o’clock was the appointed time, and he did not confirm that he would like her, but in a metropolitan night, metropolitan loneliness, the need for metropolitan comfort, it was a money transaction, and, the so-called love, was it not also a transaction of another kind?
He saw the lemonade girl stand up, her eyes drifting to his message, and come over in style, and he thought he was in luck, that he would be in for a romantic, no-hopes-and-expectations kind of love.