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.