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Chapter 1 The Floor-to-Ceiling Window
Chapter 1 The Floor-to-Ceiling Window
The rain began in the evening. When Fang Qitong came out of the lawyer's building, the plane trees on Nanjing West Road were already wet, and the taxi glass was covered with slanting streaks of water. She slid the copy of the divorce agreement into the side pocket of her handbag. Through the leather she could still feel the chill of the metal clip. Duan Fei's signature sat on the last page. The handwriting was like the man: quick, clean, no dragging, no muddle.
She sat in the back seat for a long time. Only when the driver asked for the address a third time did she give the number of the door whose entry and light trough she had designed herself.
In the elevator mirror her makeup had smudged a little. There were no tears on the thirty-eight-year-old face. Only the outer corners of her eyes were red from the rain and the air-conditioning. She carried a paper bag that held the agreement, a box of seals, and a wristwatch Duan Fei had left behind. She had meant to mail it today while she was out. The rain was too heavy. She let it go.
Cartons were stacked in the corridor. Zhou Yu was crouched at her door, sleeves rolled to his forearms, shifting a heavy box off the wall so she would have a path to put her key in.
"You're still here," she said.
"The rain came down all at once." He looked up. Twenty-seven. A clean brow. Hair mussed by sweat and rain. A dark wet patch across the shoulder of his T-shirt. "You said not to seal the shoe cabinet yet. I leaned that box of books over here so you wouldn't trip coming in. All right if I put the last two inside, against the inner side of the entry?"
She nodded. The key turned with a small sound in the empty corridor. The door opened. No lights were on inside. The floor-to-ceiling window faced west, and the city's light was cut into strips by the curtain of rain. The Huangpu lay farther off, nothing left of it but a blurred sheet of silver.
Zhou Yu carried the boxes in. The soles of his shoes left dark watermarks on the stone of the entry. He bent to look for tissues. She had already kicked a pair of guest slippers to his feet.
"You won't get them dry," she said. "Come in first. Out there it feels like something is pressing a person down."
He hesitated for one second. In that second she saw his throat move. That afternoon he had helped her move four boxes. He did not talk much. His strength was steady. When the work was done he ought to have left. She was the one who kept him for a glass of water. Then the lawyer called. She went to the balcony to take it. He stayed in the living room and lined the packing tape up straight, as if he did not want to hear another person's life come apart. By the time the call ended, the rain had joined into sheets.
"I'm soaked through," he said.
"There are dry towels in the bathroom. Left-hand cabinet."
He went. She stood at the window and set the handbag down. She did not take the agreement out. On the glass there was her shadow, and the empty place where the unlit lamps of the room should have been. All at once the hundred-and-forty-square-meter apartment felt too large, large enough for one person's breath to scatter and disappear. Duan Fei had liked that kind of emptiness. In those years, to make him like it, she had chosen a light gray sofa and made the headboard symmetrical. The symmetry was still here. The people had already signed.
The apartment was on the Xuhui riverfront. At thirty-four she had taken the model unit for an entire floor and, while she was at it, put her own home here. From the window you could see one bend of the river. In the daytime container ships crawled slowly along it. At night there were the lights on the opposite bank. Duan Fei rarely stood at this window. He said looking at scenery was a waste of time. Scenery could not be folded into a spreadsheet. Fang Qitong had argued with him then. Later she grew tired of arguing. She began to leave her best design to clients and to keep her own home in a quiet that could not go wrong.
Zhou Yu was the neighbor who had moved in two months ago. The unit next door was smaller, and the orientation was a little off. The day he came to view it the elevator was crowded, and the corner of a carton struck her shin. He apologized. His voice was low. His eyes were direct. Later she met him in the corridor moving light fixtures and said, in passing, that the color temperature was too cold. He actually took the lamp apart and adjusted it again. After that he came to ask her about the baseboard return. She crouched at his door to measure. Dust got on her shirt cuff. She cursed the supplier for cutting corners. He stood beside her and handed her a pencil, and his ears went a little red. She was busy with the divorce procedure then and did not keep that redness in her heart. She only thought this young man was clean in his hands and not oily when he spoke.
Today she had asked him to help. Duan Fei's books, his sneakers, a case of gift liquor that had never been opened. If she moved them to the door alone, her back would give. Zhou Yu did not ask extra questions. He only asked which boxes had to be sealed tight and which still needed to be left open. There was an old scar on his forearm. She saw it when they reached the third box. She did not ask.
Now he came out of the bathroom, hair rubbed half dry, a towel over his shoulder. He did not walk in too deep. He stopped at the edge of the rug.
"I can come back tomorrow to seal the boxes," he said. "Tonight you probably want to be by yourself."
"The time I wanted to be by myself has already lasted two years." Only after she said it did she realize how straight the sentence was, so she added, "The tea is in the kitchen. If you're in a hurry to go, I'll call a car."
He looked at the window. Rain struck the glass, the sound dense, like someone knocking with a knuckle and never stopping.
"Cars will jam solid at the garage mouth," he said. "I'll wait ten minutes."
Ten minutes later became a cup of hot tea. She did not turn on the ceiling light. She only switched on the floor lamp by the window. The light was warm. It cast the shadows of the rain-threads onto the floor. The two of them sat at either end of the rug, the coffee table between them. He held his cup very steady. Her fingers circled the rim, round after round.
"The agreement is signed?" he asked.
"Signed."
"He didn't come."
"He's in Singapore. Electronic signature." She smiled. The smile was thin. "Efficient. This is the last time he made me feel we were a match."
Zhou Yu was silent for a moment. "Do you want me to pack that watch as well? I saw you put it in the paper bag."
"No need. I'll mail it tomorrow." She looked at him. "How did you know it was his?"
"The way the strap is worn is different. Your watch is on your left wrist. His old box was in the second cabinet in the entry. The lid popped open when I moved it." He paused. "Sorry. I wasn't looking on purpose."
"It doesn't matter," she said. "The things in this apartment that belong to him were always meant to be seen once, and then to leave."
The rain grew heavier. The lamp swayed on the glass. She got up to close a window that had not been shut tight. Wind poured in. The hem of her skirt clung to her calves. Zhou Yu stood up with her and pressed a hand to the frame. Their hands met on the aluminum. His palm was hot. There was a thin callus across his knuckles. She did not pull back at once.
"Fang Qitong." He said her full name, his voice lower than it had been in the afternoon. "You're shaking."
"It's cold."
"Not only the cold."
She turned her face. The distance was nearer than she had reckoned. His eyes were very black. There was lamplight in them, and a young man's restraint, restraint drawn almost hard. All at once she understood that he had stayed until now not because of the car. The car was an excuse. The rain was an excuse. The boxes were too. He was waiting for her to give one sentence that would let him stay, and he was afraid that if the sentence came out of his own mouth it would sound like taking advantage of a weak moment.
She lifted her hand. Her fingertips touched the hair at his forehead, still a little wet.
"You're twenty-seven," she said.
"Yes."
"I'm thirty-eight. This afternoon I just became a divorced person. I am not unaware of what I am doing."
"I know," he said. "That's why I'm waiting for you to move first."
When she kissed him, a sweep of headlights passed outside in the direction of the river, and the white light shattered in the rain. His lips were cool. The heat of the tea was still on his tongue. The first touch was very light, like a confirmation. On the second she opened her mouth, and only then did he follow. His hand moved from the window frame to the side of her waist and pressed her through the dress, not heavily, but enough to make her lean an inch forward.
"All right?" he asked in the space between kisses.
"All right," she said. "I want this. Not out of pity. And you are not permitted to pity me."
"I don't pity you." His forehead rested against hers. "I have been looking at you since the day you let me in to see where the lights should go. You crouched down to measure the baseboard. Dust got on your shirt cuff. You cursed the supplier. I got hard. You hadn't signed any of these papers yet."
The sentence struck her. Her breath missed a beat, and then she laughed, and the laughter finally reached the bottom of her eyes. "You don't put on an act. I'll give you that."
"You hate an act."
"Yes."
She drew his hand up and placed it on her chest. There was no thick padding under the silk shirt. Her nipples had already risen and pressed his palm through the cloth. His thumb brushed slowly across. She drew in a breath. Her spine met the icy glass. The cold of the floor-to-ceiling window seeped in through her shoulder blades, and in front of her was the heat of his body. Caught between cold and heat, her legs went soft.
"The light," she said. "The building opposite can see the shadows."
"Do you want it off?"
She thought for two seconds, then reached and turned the shade of the floor lamp. The light became a narrower line of warmth. The room darkened. The reflection on the glass thinned. The city still flashed outside, but their outlines were no longer so clear.
"Like this," she said. "I want to keep this window. When I designed it, what I thought of was looking at the river in the daytime. I never thought of being pressed against it at night."
"And now you have?"
"Now I want you to press me against it."
He kissed the side of her neck. His teeth caught the skin lightly, not deep enough to leave too dark a mark, but enough to draw a smothered hum out of her. He undid the buttons of her shirt one by one. She did not hurry him. Each time he opened one, he stopped and looked at her eyes, as if making sure she was still there. After the third, the edge of her bra showed. It was the nude beige she liked herself, not something prepared for anyone. He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth. His tongue circled. His teeth scraped across it, extremely light. Her fingers pushed into his hair and tightened.
"Zhou Yu."
"I'm here."
"The other side too."
He did as she said and changed sides. At the same time his palm held the breast that had been neglected, kneading, pinching, thumb going back and forth. Her waist began to push forward. The zipper of the skirt was at her side. He found it and drew it down to the hip bone. The skirt fell to the rug and piled into a ring. Under it she wore underwear of the same color, already a little wet, the cloth a small shade darker at the center. He went down on one knee. He did not take that cloth away at once. He kissed her lower belly first, kissed the hollow of her hip, kissed the skin of her inner thigh close to the edge. She leaned against the glass. One leg was lifted and set on his shoulder. The position opened her completely, and it meant she had to hold his shoulder to stay standing.
"You have looked at me," she said, breathing hard. "Now let me watch you look at me."
He raised his eyes. That look almost arrived before his tongue. Then, through the underwear, he kissed the wet mark. Heat came through the cloth. She swore, very softly, and her fingers gripped his hair. He pulled the underwear aside. The flat of his tongue met her labia and licked slowly upward from below, stopped on her clit, tapped with the tip, then circled. The inside of her thigh trembled. The sound of the rain covered part of her moan. She bit the rest of it into her own lip.
"Don't bite," he said, lifting his head. The corner of his mouth was shining. "This is your home. You can make a sound."
"Then listen," she said.
He buried his face again, harder this time, took her clit into his mouth and sucked. Two fingers circled slowly at her entrance. Only when she sat down onto them herself did he push in. Inside she was hot and tight. She sucked at his fingers until they bent. He found the slightly rough place on her front wall and rubbed it to a rhythm. Her voice finally came out, short, broken, like rain striking metal. The orgasm came faster than she had expected. On the day of the divorce she had thought she would be numb. Her body was the first to give way, in this young man's mouth. She clamped his head. A numbness spread through the small of her back. Wetness surged and soaked his chin. He did not withdraw until she pushed his forehead.
"Come in," she said. Her voice had gone hoarse. "Don't grind around on the floor. I want you now."
He stood and undid his trousers. His cock sprang free. The size stopped her breath for a moment. Not the exaggerated kind meant to frighten a person. The thickness and the heat that, once looked at properly, softened the knees. The shaft was dark. The head was already wet. She reached out and took hold of it. Her thumb wiped across the small slit at the tip and spread that bit of clear fluid. The muscles of his stomach tightened. A very low gasp rolled in his throat.
"Is there one in your pocket?" she asked.
"In my wallet. I didn't leave the house with this as my purpose, but I have one. I checked the expiry. It's all right."
"Put it on."
His fingers were steady while he put it on. Watching that hand, she suddenly felt safe. The safety was not because of age. It was because, at a moment like this, he still remembered to ask, and still remembered to wear one. She turned around. Her palms pressed the glass. She lowered her waist and offered her ass to him. Handprints and the fog of breath appeared on the glass almost at once.
"This way the river is still in sight," she said. "When you come in, tell me you are still here."
He held her hips. The head of his cock met her opening and pushed slowly in. She was very wet, and still the feeling of being opened was clear, inch by inch, until his hip bones met her ass. The two of them let out a breath at the same time. He did not thrust at once. He bent and kissed her shoulder blade. His hand came around to the front. His palm covered her lower belly, so she could feel how deep he was inside her.
"I'm here," he said. "Fang Qitong. All of me is inside you."
"Move."
He drew out a little and drove back in. At the start he was very slow. Every stroke went all the way to the root. His balls tapped lightly against her labia. The glass gave the faintest shiver with the force. Her nipples rubbed the icy window, pain and pleasure together. The pain was only a little. The pleasure was the kind that ran into the deep of her belly. She began to push back to meet him. He felt it and quickened. His hand moved from her belly to her clit, and the pad of his finger rubbed in time with the thrusts. Besides the rain, the room held the sound of flesh meeting flesh, and the moans she no longer held down.
"Too deep," she said.
"Shall I go a little shallower?"
"No. I'm only telling you it's too deep. Keep going."
He laughed, low. The laugh lay against her ear, and then it became a heavier driving. Her forehead rested on the glass. She saw her own blurred eyes, and she saw his shadow behind her. On this day a thirty-eight-year-old body was opened again. Not the kind of opening defined by a marriage. She herself parted her legs, sent her waist out, and said a clear "I want." When she came the second time, her inner walls clenched him in waves. He bit her shoulder and stopped. A muffled groan. He did not come at once. Being gripped made his arms shake.
"You can come," she said. "I want to feel it."
"Not enough yet." His voice had already broken. "Give me one more minute. I want to see your face."
He pulled out, turned her around, and lifted her onto the narrow ledge by the window. The surface was marble she had chosen. It was cold. The moment she sat she flinched. At once he spread the discarded skirt under her. The movement was quick, but it was not panic. Then he entered her again. Face to face, everything was clearer. She could see the furrow of his brow. She could see his mouth holding back the end. She could see sweat slide from the side of his neck into his collarbone. Her legs locked around his waist. Her heels pressed his back and urged him on.
"Look at me," she said.
"I am looking."
"I am nobody's wife now. What you are entering is Fang Qitong."
"I know." Every stroke of his went to the deepest place. Her clit was ground by his lower belly. "What I want is you. Not an empty place. Not the crack left after someone goes."
That sentence carried her over the edge. She cried out once. Not from sorrow. From being too full. Her body spasmed and clamped tight. Her fingers dragged red marks down his back. He reached it too. He stopped at the deepest place. She could feel him jump and jump inside the condom as he came. His breath broke in the hollow of her neck, hot, disordered, real.
The rain was still falling. The glass was all fog and handprints. They held the joined position. Neither of them spoke first. A long time passed before he withdrew carefully, tied a knot, and wrapped the condom. Her legs were still soft. He wrapped her in a towel and did not rush her toward the bed. They sat back on the rug, their backs against the sofa, her head on his shoulder.
"Those ten minutes were over a long time ago," she said quietly.
"The rain hasn't stopped," he said. "I can sleep on the sofa. If you want me to go, I'll go now."
She drew the agreement out of the handbag, glanced at the last page, and pushed it back in. Outside, a ship's horn sounded, the sound soaked soft by the rain. The cold of the glass was still in her palms. The insides of her thighs were still trembling. She turned her face and kissed his jaw. A little stubble had just come up there. It itched her lips.
"Don't go tonight," she said. "The sofa isn't necessary either. But that bed—I haven't decided yet how to deal with it. Sit with me a while."
He answered, and his arm tightened. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, Shanghai's rain washed the whole city bright. She knew this was not an ending, and not a simple beginning. It was only a divorced woman, in front of her own window, taking what she wanted for the first time without asking anyone's consent.
