The moon has risen, casting a cold, clear glow upon the soft lavender curtains in the bedroom, like prying eyes intent on my secrets. My privacy lies bare before it, exposed little by little, yet I find myself unwilling to resist this unveiling, even finding a strange pleasure in the freedom of surrender. To be blunt, on this hauntingly melancholic night, I am unable to suppress a sudden yearning for a man. Fantasizing about Yunke fails to deliver real satisfaction or climax. In truth, Yunke only intensifies my longing for a man; I crave real touch, a real embrace, a real kiss, with a fierceness that confounds me—I'm unsure whether it's my soul's desire or my body's that drives me most.
Is it even possible to separate the two? As I run my hands over my warm, flushed skin, I am mystified—how could someone as devoted to love as I suddenly desire a man's pure physicality with such raw intensity?
Something must be amiss, but whatever the cause, my body's restless yearning is undeniably vivid and real.
I know the world is lacking in many things, but it certainly doesn't lack men, just as it doesn't lack women.
Turning a page in my memory, I see another man—a wide grin, bright and cheerful… this man is none other than "Fatty."
Tonight, it seems fitting for Fatty to reappear on the stage of my desire, not just because he sat with me for two hours in a drafty old teahouse without complaint, nor simply for his enthusiastic telling of eight jokes when I barely responded. He truly is an ideal marriage prospect if I ever wished to marry and a perfect weekend companion if I ever wanted someone to share my weekends.
Fatty is a powerful government official in a prominent department, often seen on local TV and in newspapers. At forty-six, he is like a stock that rises daily—a promising bachelor, ripe for women's attention. Since the passing of his wife, matchmakers have eagerly knocked on his door, unmindful of his grief. In their eyes, this is "seizing an opportunity." Fatty soon became the town's hot commodity, bombarded by matchmakers and receiving admirers' glances, letters, and flirtations from widowed, divorced, and single women alike. Yet amid this bustling matchmaking, Fatty remained deeply silent, his only expression a smile, his only words a polite "thank you," revealing a man's poise and restraint. In today's terms, we would call him "cool."
And I am precisely the type of woman who appreciates a "cool" man, whether he feigns it or not; a man's cool demeanor shows, to some extent, his strength of character.
For three years, Fatty's life remained steady amidst the swarm of admirers, untouched by romance, his heart as yet unconquered. Word has it that a thirty-five-year-old woman in his department once harbored a crush on him for five years, even pursued him openly for another three, only to retreat in sorrow and marry a man five years her senior from Singapore, leaving the city behind.
Her name was Xinna—a striking name, evoking a certain sharpness that might make one approach her with caution. How her parents chose it, I cannot fathom, for in truth, Xinna was gentle and humble.
It was spring, the season of blooming peach blossoms, a time when life's promise fills the air, alluring and rich. They say a meeting under blossoming peaches foretells a romance. Unfortunately, Xinna met Fatty on a winter day when snowflakes filled the sky. She had just graduated from graduate school and was assigned to the municipal government, delayed by a project completion. Fatty, battling a cold, welcomed her and, as he poured her tea, sneezed, inadvertently spraying her pale face. Embarrassed, he clumsily wiped her face with a tissue, and though separated by the paper, Xinna's heart pounded at this unintentional intimacy, awakening a love long dormant.
But Fatty, oblivious, misread her affection as friendly respect. For years, he mistook her gestures—bringing breakfast, caring for him when ill, keeping his favorite tea in stock—as mere kindness. His acceptance of her care often gave Xinna the illusion that he understood her feelings and approved, only for her hopes to be dashed again when he did nothing more.
Sometimes, Fatty would discuss personal matters, asking, "When will you invite me to your wedding? I can hardly wait." Xinna would blush, sorrowfully gazing at him in silence. Fatty assumed she was shy, casually shifting the topic to the weather, only to pause on his way out to suggest, "I'll ask my wife to help find someone for you—she's quite the matchmaker. What kind of man do you like?"
"No, thank you," Xinna would murmur after he left, resentfully sighing, "What kind of man? Can I tell you that the man I want is you?"
After Fatty's wife's passing, he became the focus of the local matchmakers, just as Xinna had become the center of city gossip.
"Could it be a health issue? Perhaps she's not… all there?"
"Really? She looks healthy enough."
"And how would you know? Have you verified?"
"Just a hunch—her figure seems fine, though she does dress too conservatively, aging herself by at least a decade."
"Hm, maybe. Could it be psychological?"
"Who knows? They say she's never even dated before… perhaps too focused on her studies."
"I'm not sure; I've visited her place—it's spotless, and she's a fine cook. Any man would be lucky."
"I don't get it. She's over thirty, but shows no sign of wanting a man?"
"Wanting a man? Not everyone's as scandalous as you! She's a virgin, hasn't had that experience, so maybe she doesn't feel it."
Laughter filled the room, pressing the air thin.