On that fervent weekend night, where passions surged like a tide, Fatty, the minister, made his ceremonious debut as the second man to step onto my stage of intimacy. One pivotal reason for his presence was his outward appearance—a man who seemed an ideal candidate for marriage and equally fitting as a weekend lover. Yet, often, the façade of appearances and the reality beneath are worlds apart, sometimes wholly contradictory. As I once remarked, to me, Fatty was a ticking time bomb, and subsequent events proved this assessment to be anything but an exaggeration.
It was a splendid morning. I awoke languidly from an exhilarating, dreamlike reverie of springtime passion, my body flushed with heat, as if intoxicated by potent spirits. I tried to piece together the fragments of my dream—the gentlemanly demeanor of its protagonist bore a faint resemblance to Yunke, yet the primal wildness of his actions seemed uncharacteristic of him. I longed to return to that tantalizing dreamscape, to relive its intoxicating embrace, but its gates had shut resolutely, leaving me to wander, frustrated, in its shadows. Lying in bed, lost in thought, I realized with some self-reproach that I had slipped into a state of wistful fantasy or even self-indulgent delusion, leaving my mood slightly dampened.
It was then I heard the deafening echo of Fatty's bomb detonating. The sound was paradoxical—seemingly distant enough to leave me unscathed, yet so close I could not feign indifference.
Has anyone ever conducted a study to determine the likelihood of an affair between a young, attractive maid and her employer, or the probability of such a maid supplanting the wife as the lady of the house? I estimate that even conservatively, the former might surpass fifty percent, though the latter is far harder to quantify—it's a complex affair, tangled with myriad variables. I had never seriously pondered such questions, nor delved deeply into the causes behind such entanglements. Perhaps this indifference stemmed from the fact that my household lacked a male head capable of such indiscretions. If not for another close encounter with Fatty, I might never have turned my attention to the lives of maids, their joys and sorrows forever remaining a mystery to me.
Fatty called me just as I had finished organizing my desk and was preparing to unwind with a trip to the supermarket after work. It was the weekend once again, and after a hectic week, I yearned to reward myself with some indulgence.
"Yanyu, may I invite you to dinner?" he asked.
I wanted to refuse, but no suitable excuse came to mind. I've always struggled with saying no, particularly when it comes to fabricating lies to do so. This flaw often leaves me accommodating others against my will. There's truth in the adage: learning to say no is a sign of maturity.
But I am not mature. Even a divorce hadn't fast-tracked my growth, especially in navigating human relationships.
"Yanyu, I just want to talk, nothing more. Don't be nervous," Fatty said earnestly.
"Whatever you wish to say can be said over the phone, can't it?" I replied.
"But I want to see you…"
"Let's just talk over the phone; it's more convenient this way. Go ahead, I'm listening." I cut him off abruptly, eager to maintain distance, as though this was the only way to draw an unequivocal boundary between us.
"I'm not what you think," Fatty insisted.
"I haven't thought anything, Minister Jiang. You're overthinking this," I countered.
"Yanyu, it's not about seeing you in person…"
"Perfect! Then just say it over the phone," I chuckled, sensing a peculiar incoherence in his words.
"Why won't you let me finish? You weren't like this before," he said, his tone tinged with exasperation.
"And how was I before?" I asked, inexplicably compelled to challenge him.
"You were poised, composed, graceful—a woman of elegance and understanding."
"Was I? And now, am I no longer poised or graceful? Have I become unlovable?" My words, sharp with irony, surprised even me.
"Of course not. It's just… something has changed, though I can't quite say what."
Feigning levity, I joked about aging and discovering a strand of gray hair. Fatty, however, grew somber. "Yanyu, stop joking. I'm not in the mood," he said gravely, his unusually serious tone unsettling me.
"Tell me what's wrong," I said, my mockery giving way to concern.
"I'm in trouble—real trouble this time. I need someone to talk to, and apart from you, I don't know who else to turn to. Yanyu, I've caused a mess, and this time it's serious." His repeated mentions of "trouble" sent a shiver through me.
I heard the chains of my inner defenses creak and groan, straining against his words. I warned myself to bolt them tight, to keep Fatty at bay. Yet the sound grew louder, until with a final crash, they shattered. I agreed to meet him, unsure whether it was out of concern, curiosity, or both.