On Friday, April 12, 2013, the cloudy sky cleared. I never expected to encounter him.
It began as an ordinary afternoon. Being Friday, I let my employees leave early—some for dates, others to pick up their children. I headed to the fitness center. Today, I completed the 5km jog in 26 minutes, two minutes faster than last week. Coach Gao was pleased, and so was I. Our relationship seemed to have improved. However, this atmosphere didn’t last long. While helping me stretch, he placed his hand on my thigh again.
“Your muscles have become quite firm,” he remarked.
“Oh, have they?” I replied.
His hand inched up a few more centimeters. “Keep it up, and your body fat percentage will continue to decrease.”
“Hmm.” I straightened up. “Enough to break your nose?”
His face instantly turned the color of pork liver, which was quite amusing. When I tossed him the hand target, he still couldn’t look at me, his expression sullen.
I knew he saw me as that type of woman: single, wealthy, aging, who would be aroused by his abs and buttocks, likely to end up in his bed after just three sessions.
He believed this wholeheartedly.
Fine, it didn’t matter. Dear Coach Gao, you’re welcome to keep thinking that. For now, please hold up the hand target seriously. Before completing that task, I need to ensure my strength and technique are at their best.
Twenty minutes on the hand target, twenty minutes on the pear-shaped ball. After the training, Coach Gao politely asked me to sign the training record, his expression making me want to laugh.
After showering and drying my hair, I had a vegetable salad for dinner at “Lotus Coffee”. While debating whether to get a massage or go straight home, I noticed the performance poster in front of the small theater across the street.
The background faded from blue to green, decorated with bubbles, seaweed, and coral. In the center was a cartoon image of a red-haired girl, holding a yellow fish, sitting on a reef, and gazing at an ancient castle by the sea. Her lower body was a round, slender fishtail, swaying with the waves.
Musical fairy tale: “The Daughter of the Sea.”
The. Daughter. Of. The. Sea.
I drowned these four words between my lips with coffee. The waiter clearing the table opposite looked at me curiously. I lowered my eyelids, feeling increasingly large drops condensing on my eyelashes.
The ticket cost 80 yuan. The small theater wasn’t large, seating only a few dozen people. I sat in the last row, looking at the deep purple curtain on the stage, wondering what the undersea world behind it would be like.
Some audience members had already taken their seats, waiting for the show to begin. Most were parents with their children. The scent of popcorn mixed with the children’s shrill chatter, pulling this place back above the sea surface. I exhaled deeply, imagining my gills quietly closing behind my ears.
A little girl in a lime green knit dress stood up from her seat, excitedly surveying the starfish, shells, and octopus hanging above the theater.
“Mom, look, it’s Patrick Star!” she exclaimed.
The girl’s mother quickly pulled her back to her seat. “Shh! Don’t disturb others, the show’s about to start.”
This woman was about my age, with a refined appearance, wearing simple black-framed glasses. As she spoke, she glanced around to see if her daughter had bothered anyone. Our eyes met in the air, and she gave me an apologetic smile. I smiled back and looked away.
Then I saw him.
Yang Le, holding a large portion of popcorn and a soda, was squeezing past the audience in the fourth row, approaching the woman with black-framed glasses. His forehead was covered in fine sweat, and his slightly round face had a faint oily sheen. His movement was visibly difficult. In the gap between the seats and thighs, Yang Le had to pull in his slightly protruding belly, trying hard to avoid spilling the soda while nodding apologetically to those forced to pull in their legs.
The balding, out-of-shape Yang Le finally reunited with his wife and daughter. The woman with black-framed glasses seemed quite displeased, but the little girl was overjoyed, reaching into the paper box to grab handfuls of popcorn while pointing at the huge golden starfish for him to see.
Yang Le’s face was fully exposed in the light. Following his daughter’s finger, he looked at the starfish with an exaggerated expression of amazement. In that instant, I remembered a young man with distinct facial features, narrow eyes, and a warm smile.
I sat in the shadows, watching him clumsily indulge his daughter’s animated gestures, feeling the sharp pain of time cutting through my body. Just as the theater lights dimmed, the black-framed glasses woman pulled them back to their seats, and “The Daughter of the Sea” began.
The little mermaid rested her chin on her hand, listening dreamily to her sister describe the sights above the sea.
The little mermaid struggled to bring the prince to shore.
The witch said, “You’ll turn into sea foam.” The little mermaid’s face went pale: “I’m not afraid!”
The little mermaid awoke from excruciating pain, her round, slender fishtail transformed into a pair of beautiful legs. Before she stood the prince, his eyes full of concern.
I grabbed my purse, quickly stood up, and left my seat amidst complaints.
I had to escape. Because I feared he might say to that little girl, “I was once that prince.”
But as I reached the door, I couldn’t help but turn back to look at the stage. The little mermaid and the prince were dancing gracefully. A white long dress made of silk and fine gauze. Enchanting legs, swirling skirts.
The night was falling. My car and I sped along the highway, the brightly lit city slowly unfolding before my eyes. Occasionally, I’d see children holding their parents’ hands, hopping along the roadside. Whether they were happy or not, I couldn’t tell, but I knew that my suffering, like the road ahead with no end in sight, was endless.
Little mermaids, your journey to heaven is but three hundred years. Each of my tears will add a day.
I gripped the steering wheel tightly, pressing down on the accelerator. The black car body merged more swiftly into this night.
Beautiful little mermaid, please sing for every smile in the air.
My mute orphan, don’t be afraid. This city is your ocean.