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Chapter 6 Dinner
Chapter 6 Dinner
In the end Fang Qitong did not dismiss him with cold noodles. She came out of the studio, went around to Xiangyang Road, and bought a sea bass. At the market she always used she picked up ginger, scallion, a bunch of small green vegetables, and a bottle of white wine from a winery whose name was not loud. When she got home the sky was not fully dark. She cleaned the fish, scored it, and stuffed it with shreds of ginger. The work turned her hands back into the hands of living, and not the hands that signed.
When the doorbell rang she was heating the pan. Zhou Yu stood outside in a clean T-shirt. In his hand was a box of cut fruit, and a small bunch of chamomile that had not cost much. The flowers had been bought at the metro exit. There was still water on the petals.
"You said the cold noodles weren't good," he said, holding the flowers out. "I still brought something sweet. If you cook too salty, this can press it down."
"I won't cook too salty." She took the flowers and found a glass bottle she rarely used. "Come in. Shoes off. No moving boxes today."
Dinner was set on the table by the window. The fish was steamed just right. The wine had been iced. The greens had been blanched only a dozen seconds. Shanghai's night rose outside the floor-to-ceiling window. On the opposite bank of the river the lights came on one by one. They sat face to face, like a pair of people who could live a day all the way in. The likeness made Fang Qitong feel hollow inside, and greedy.
"It's good," Zhou Yu said. He put the tenderest piece of meat from the fish's belly into her bowl. "You really can. Did you used to cook often?"
"The first three years of the marriage, often. Later he came home late. The food would go old, so I cooked less. Later still I didn't want to open a fish for a person who would not sit at the table." She drank a mouthful of wine. "Don't take that to mean I'm looking for a substitute who will sit at the table. You are not a substitute. You are the person today who picks the bones out."
"I know." He set the bones at the edge of the plate, arranged very neatly. "A substitute has the same shape. He and I are not the same shape. I'm twenty-seven. I make lamps. I watch your hands while you steam a fish. He will not turn into me. I will not turn into a person who can sign electronically in Singapore."
She looked at him, then suddenly reached over and wiped a trace of wine from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. When she had wiped it she did not take the hand back. She leaned on the edge of the table and set her bare foot on the top of his foot.
"Zhou Yu," she said. "After we finish eating, I want you. Not immediately. I want to talk to you first. I want to know what your kitchen smelled like when you were small. It's old-fashioned. But today I want old-fashioned."
"Old-fashioned, then." He took her ankle. His thumb rubbed slowly over the bone. "My mother cooks with a lot of garlic. Home is in Ningbo, not far from the sea. My father is an electrician. The first time I had a feeling for light was when he came back from fixing street lamps, copper rust on his hands, and said if a lamp flickers, people grow uneasy. Later, when I made lamps, what I was really making was a thing that does not flicker. A thing that lets a person feel at ease."
"You make me uneasy," she said. "And you put me at ease. The two happening together is a lot of trouble."
"Then leave the trouble." He drew her foot onto his own leg, so the sole rested against the root of his thigh, which had already grown a little warm. "Eat. If the food goes cold you'll say again that you don't know how to look after a person. You do know. You only went too long without an object for it."
They finished the fish. Half a bottle of wine was left. While she cleared the plates he came up against her from behind. His hands were washed clean and still carried the lemon smell of the dish soap. His mouth fell on the nape of her neck. Her hands were still dripping. She braced them on the edge of the sink.
"Now?" he asked.
"Now," she said. She turned off the tap. "Right here. Lights on. I want to see your face, and I want to see the window. I don't want them off today."
He turned her and lifted her onto the counter. There was a little water on the surface, cold. She flinched. At once he laid a dried cloth under her. The small movement struck her again. She opened her legs and let him stand between them. Her skirt was pushed high. He did not enter at once. First he fed her a piece of the pear he had brought. The pear was very sweet. Juice ran from the corner of her mouth. He licked it away, licked along her chin to her collarbone, and then drew her house dress down off her shoulders. Her breasts were bare under the warm kitchen light. He held them in both hands, bent, and sucked them in turn, until she arched and her lower belly rubbed the buckle of his belt.
"Sweet," he said.
"That's the pear."
"It's you." He knelt and, on the kitchen tile, kissed the inside of her thigh. The tile was very hard. She told him to get up. He shook his head and said he wanted her to go soft once first, in this place where she had cooked. His tongue was hot and steady. A faint acidity of the wine was still in his mouth. When he licked across her clit she caught his hair. The smell of steamed fish was still in the air, mixed with her own smell. She felt absurd, and she felt alive. The orgasm came gently. She clamped his head. Some of the wetness that overflowed he drank. The rest stayed on his mouth.
When he stood his eyes had gone dark. She helped him open his trousers and stroked him a few times. The head was already wet. The condom was one he had brought, set beside the fruit box. Seeing it, she wanted to laugh again. He put it on, set himself against her, and pushed in slowly. The height of the counter was exactly right. He stood and thrust. Because of that height every stroke was deep and straight. Her legs locked around his waist. Her heels knocked his lower back, urging him, stroke by stroke.
"Say where you are now," she said, panting.
"In your home. On the counter where you cook. Inside you." With every sentence he thrust once. "You steamed the fish. I bought the flowers. You're gripping me. Qitong, look at me."
She looked at him. The kitchen light was brighter than the floor lamp. Everything could be seen, including the lines on her lower belly, including the tendon in his neck pulled tight by effort, including the wet shine drawn out at the place they were joined, every time. She did not hide. She even reached down and touched where they were joined, touched the edge of herself stretched open, touched the shaft moving in and out of her. The touch reddened her face further, and it excited her more. She rubbed her clit with her fingertips. He saw it. His breath went to pieces. He began to drive harder. The cabinet door under the counter made a small sound. She did not care. This was her kitchen. She was allowed to be loud here.
"I'm going to come," she said. "Follow me. I want it together."
He bent and took her nipple into his mouth. His hand pressed the fingers she was rubbing with, and they rubbed together. When she came she cried out truly. Her walls clenched and wrung him to the end as well. When he came his forehead rested against hers. His eyes did not close all the way, as if he still wanted to finish looking at her in this moment. The pulse inside him came through the condom into her body. She held his neck softly, laughed once, and after the laugh there was water at the corner of her eye.
"This isn't crying," she said first. "This is too good. Don't make a comforting sound. Comfort will break the good."
"No sound." He only kissed the corner of her eye and kissed that little wetness away.
Later they still finished the fruit. She sat on the rug wearing his T-shirt. He leaned against the sofa. The two of them used the same fork. Outside the window a pleasure boat passed. Its band of lights dragged a long line of gold. She put her feet under the hem of his T-shirt and stepped on his stomach. He caught her ankle and bit it, not hard.
"Tomorrow is Saturday," she said. "If you don't have a site, sleep a little longer. I'm going to look at a carpet. You can come. You can also not come. Looking at carpet is boring."
"I'll come," he said. "I can hand you samples from the side. I'm very good at handing things."
"There are too many things you're very good at." She looked at him. "If this goes on I'll get used to it. A habit is harder to deal with than an orgasm."
"Then get used to it slowly." He fed her the last piece of pear. "I won't rush you. I'll only show up, time after time, until you find I'm already inside your Saturday."
She chewed the pear. The sweetness came apart in her mouth. She did not promise anything permanent. She only leaned her head over, onto the shoulder of a man who, having finished dinner, was still unwilling to leave. The kitchen light was still on. The flowers were in the glass bottle, cheap, and properly open. She thought, this was one shape of the new life she wanted. Fish. Wine. A person who asked her whether he might. A person who, after she said he might, lifted her onto her own counter and did it deep, and seriously.
