Tonight, under the weight of deepening darkness and the heavy dew, I plant the seeds of my tender feelings. Though we know each other deeply, fate denies our meeting, leaving me alone to guard this fragile dream.
That autumn night, as my desires surged and overwhelmed me, Yun Ke surfaced in my mind as naturally and swiftly as if he were simply standing at the doorstep of my memory. One turn of the key, and I could almost reach out to touch his vivid image.
The first man to step onto this evening's stage of my sensual imaginings, Yun Ke is extraordinary in every way that resonates with my own sense of beauty and charm.
Two springs ago, at a conference, a tall, sun-darkened, slender man delivered a passionate speech on "dissolving the iceberg of China's market economy." And something in him—indescribable yet undeniable—was enough to melt the emotional ice that had kept me frozen for three years. To this day, his unique masculinity remains in my life like a tenacious patch of chives, cut and grown, grown and cut again, its green vitality resilient in the face of my efforts to forget.
The journey from meeting Yun Ke to loving him was infused with the color of romanticism, as all love stories are. And like so many unexpected emotions, it faced its share of challenges, blossoming time and again but never fully finding its fruition.
To me, Yun Ke has always seemed a warrior. In the turbulent business world, he strategizes with precision and fights with courage, winning one victory after another, captivating the hearts of many women. And yet, this resilient man, so adept at managing his career, stumbles when it comes to handling his own feelings. He avoids the subjects of love and marriage as if they are reefs in a treacherous sea, carefully steering clear of them at every turn. Even those close to him avoid the topic as though it were some unspoken deficiency.
This evasiveness left me both puzzled and deeply curious. At a dinner gathering during our fifth meeting, I casually yet purposefully asked, "Yun Ke, why didn't you bring your wife along? I bet she's quite a beauty, isn't she?"
His face darkened instantly. He picked up his glass, took a long drink, and glared at me, biting off his words: "My wife is none of your concern."
I was stunned, momentarily at a loss for who he was even speaking to. When I realized his sharp gaze was directed at me, my face burned, and my hand trembled, tears welling up embarrassingly in my eyes.
Our friends at the table froze, their jaws hanging open.
I stood up abruptly, desperate to escape. A friend by my side grabbed my arm, whispering, "Yan Yu, Yun Ke's just joking. Don't take it seriously. Come on, have some wine, eat a bit more. You're really too thin—you need to take better care of yourself."
"I'm full. I'll leave you all to enjoy the meal," Yun Ke responded coldly, with no trace of apology. He rose and left, throwing me one last, icy glance that seemed intended to wound.
The warmth I'd felt toward Yun Ke from our previous encounters shattered in an instant. I resolved in my heart: I never want to see him again. Never again.
Later, I learned that Yun Ke's wife had already undergone a high amputation two years before. Upon discovering this, I immediately forgave Yun Ke's outburst and even began to feel a deep compassion for him.
It was said that his wife had once been his partner in business—beautiful, brilliant, capable, gentle—a woman so rare that many believed one needed multiple lifetimes of good fortune to marry someone like her. I could picture the two of them standing at the altar, a dazzling couple that would inspire both admiration and envy.
But fate, it seems, never allows perfection to linger unscathed. Youth is beautiful but inevitably gives way to wrinkles and gray hair; life is beautiful but eventually sentenced to death's decree; flowers are beautiful but doomed to wither under the autumn wind; joyous gatherings eventually dissolve, leaving behind only the melancholy of scattered cups and plates. Even the vast sea, with its breathtaking beauty under the rising moon, has its share of sorrow as the moon sinks beyond reach.
Regret, it seems, is woven into every thread of existence.
If that remarkable woman could have foreseen the catastrophic accident that would follow their tenth wedding anniversary celebration, perhaps she would have gladly tossed that date into the trash bin of memory, preferred that Yun Ke forget every cherished detail of their love, wished they could have only a modest existence, devoid of luxury, recalling only the simple, quiet journey of their marriage.
But life's script seems inevitable, as if each role in this tragic comedy is predetermined, leaving us no choice but to accept it.
The accident that led to her high amputation was, in essence, caused by Yun Ke's decision to drive under the influence on their anniversary night.
She had warned him, "You've had enough. If you keep drinking, you'll be too drunk to drive."
"When have I ever been too drunk to handle my drink?" he replied, full of confidence. "Ten years together, and we're still as passionate as we were in our first days. I'm happy, I'm proud, and I feel our life is simply perfect."
Riding his intoxicated bliss, he began to recite Yeats' "When You Are Old" with all the fervor of a true romantic.
"Many loved your moments of grace And the beauty of your smile, But only one loved the pilgrim soul in you And the sorrows of your changing face..."
He whispered, "My love, I am that one person who will love every line and every gray hair."
She couldn't help but grasp his hand, her eyes brimming with tears.
He promised her that in another ten decades, a hundred decades, his love would remain unchanged, steadfast and unwavering as it was that night.
When a friend recounted this story to me, I could barely hold back my tears. Do not think I was moved by his love or the beauty of their marriage. No, my tears were not for that. I wept for the helplessness of love itself, for its tendency toward unrequited yearning. As a divorced woman who has witnessed love's demise and the breakdown of marriage, I knew all too well that apart from familial bonds, no other emotions can offer any guarantees. Like life and fate, they are full of variables, of unknowns.
Yun Ke's friend thought I was touched by a beautiful love story and said, "Their life was just too perfect, so perfect that even the heavens grew jealous."
He paused, frowning deeply, unable to finish the thought. Luckily, I felt no urge to press him further. My thoughts lingered on Yun Ke's wife, reluctant to drift away.
Women are always especially mindful of other women, especially if those women have some history with the man they love. What is often mistaken for noble tolerance in a woman's love is, in truth, a form of self-deception; any love that cuts to the bone is nothing but possessiveness cloaked in desire. As a woman, I am no exception to this, no matter how refined, mature, or composed I may be.
For instance, I felt jealousy toward Yun Ke's wife from the start. I even secretly cursed her, hoping some misfortune might take her away from him (the specifics of how didn't matter), or that she might fall in love with someone else and disappear from Yun Ke's life. Only then could I conquer Yun Ke's heart. These thoughts, cruel and selfish as they were, always seemed to emerge on lonely nights, when my mind was overwhelmed with unrequited longing for him. Sometimes, I would grit my teeth and wonder, Why did there have to be a Yun Ke's wife? Why did Yun Ke's fate have to intersect with mine?
Yet every morning, I would awaken to bright sunlight, the gentle breeze teasing the lavender curtains, and the cheerful morning recitations from the nearby school. A consciousness would stir within me, bringing with it a sense of calm. I would think back to my harsh curses the night before, feeling a surge of shame, and with that shame, a deep sadness.
I had finally come to realize that desire is not only the source of imagination but also the root of all evil.