Desire at this intensity was almost painful, blurring the line between a sharp blade and sweet honey.
After deep squats, Ao continued with rope climbing. Gan Yang’s strength was slightly inferior, but his endurance and bodyweight exercises were superior. Wilson was overtaken by him on the pull-up bar, only to catch up under the barbell. The two alternated in the lead, neither willing to yield.
As the competition neared its end, they performed a set of muscle-ups to exhaustion, their faces contorting wildly with effort. The resulting footage could easily become meme-worthy. Ding Zhitong even suspected the front desk clerk of secretly filming while pretending to use his phone.
…8, 9, 10, she silently counted along, holding her breath. She watched as Gan Yang let go, with Wilson finishing almost simultaneously. The coach had only one stopwatch, making it impossible to determine a clear winner.
Gan Yang had barely dismounted hands on his hips and still catching his breath, when the woman who had been lifting barbells nearby rushed over. She jumped up to high-five Wilson, exclaiming, “Wilson, you were amazing!” Her enthusiasm seemed to embody all the positivity under the sun.
Gan Yang looked bewildered. Ding Zhitong just smiled at him from across the room, nodding slightly. Her eyes conveyed the message: “Yes, they came together. The world changes quickly, doesn’t it? Surprised?”
Her class had also ended. After stretching, she said goodbye to the coach and headed for the locker room. Gan Yang caught up in a few strides. The spring-loaded door closed behind him, leaving them alone in the corridor. The music from the training area suddenly faded, and the surrounding silence made even their breathing audible. He grabbed her wrist, his palm especially hot from lifting weights. Their sweat mingled, carrying a faint metallic scent.
“I’m going to shower and change. We’ll eat together afterward,” Ding Zhitong explained, allowing him to hold her wrist. She spoke first as if sensing his fear that she might leave.
Soon after, the four of them, freshly cleaned up, were seated in a restaurant.
The woman who had been lifting barbells was a colleague from M Bank’s Hong Kong PR department. That morning, Ding Zhitong had mentioned to Wilson that she wanted to invite someone else to the gym that evening. Wilson had readily agreed and invited his colleague as well.
Ding Zhitong and Gan Yang focused on eating while listening to the other’s chat. It was clear that Wilson and his colleague had only recently met. Their conversation covered similar ground to the one at “Night Shanghai” the other day. Wilson repeated much of what he had said before, eventually asking, “Should we go sit at a bar?”
Suddenly curious, Ding Zhitong asked him, “What was your result on the sixteen personality type test during the Bangkok training?”
Wilson thought for a moment before answering, “ENTP?”
As she tried to recall what those letters represented, Gan Yang kicked her foot under the table, his eyes saying, “Let’s go!”
Ding Zhitong laughed, quickly finished her drink, and insisted on paying the bill before saying goodbye to the other two.
Leaving the restaurant, they walked along the night-time streets.
“Did you enjoy the workout?” Ding Zhitong asked, unable to suppress a smile.
Gan Yang, unwilling to admit his misunderstanding, stubbornly explained, “I just can’t stand people like that. How old is he to still be wearing a university T-shirt?”
Ding Zhitong replied, “Your old bear T-shirt looked quite good too.”
Gan Yang remembered. She had worn it as a nightshirt back then. It was white with a brown bear hugging a large red letter C. Whether due to the artist’s limited skill or intentional design, the bear’s expression was both cute and fierce.
“Do you still have it?” Ding Zhitong asked.
Gan Yang remained silent, taking her hand. Ding Zhitong didn’t look at him, continuing to walk forward. He stayed quiet, only interlacing their fingers when crossing the street. His heartbeat quickened, not suddenly, but in waves, rising and falling gently.
She made small talk, noticing broken glass on the street and graffiti on the walls. She mentioned that when “Joker” was showing in cinemas, with Gotham City in chaos on screen, some audience members stood up and applauded. She had found it surreal then, but upon leaving the theater, she saw people swinging baseball bats to smash subway station windows and throwing Molotov cocktails inside.
“How did it come to this?” she sighed.
“The world? Or us?” Gan Yang responded, quoting song lyrics.
It was meant as a joke, but they were suddenly interrupted by someone behind them speaking in Cantonese: “Our goal is to build a completely new Hong Kong. If mainlanders don’t like it, they can go back. Everyone will be happy.”
She saw the black clothes worn by the group. It wasn’t her first encounter with such a situation. She knew that staying silent or speaking to them in fluent English would diffuse the tension.
But perhaps it was the drink she had earlier kicking in, or the feeling of invincibility after leaving the gym. She spoke up: “I’ve been in Hong Kong for nine years. I could apply for permanent residency anytime. I used to love this place – its warmth, humidity, and even the Hong Kong Marathon. But now I can’t even talk to my local colleagues. So what are you trying to achieve by destroying everything? Even if everyone you dislike leaves, won’t you still be stuck here?”
It was a moment of impulse. Gan Yang had already moved to protect her, quickening their pace. But the black-clad individuals didn’t disperse. The street was nearly empty, with few passersby or cars. Likely emboldened by their apparent vulnerability, the group continued to follow and provoke them. Further ahead, at another intersection, more people in black clothes and umbrellas seemed to be approaching.
“F*ck!” Ding Zhitong finally felt the tension.
Gan Yang had also noticed. He put one arm around her back and used his other hand to protect her head against his chest.
“What should we do?” she asked, pressed against him.
Gan Yang smiled and whispered in her ear, “Didn’t you tell me your best marathon time was under 3:50?”
Ding Zhitong pulled back slightly, looking at him in confusion.
Gan Yang mouthed silently: Run.
Before she could react, he grabbed her hand and dashed across the road, sprinting down the empty sidewalk.
As they ran, he cursed, first in English. His time in a Philadelphia high school had honed his proficiency in English profanities, leaving the Hong Kong youths unable to respond. When English wasn’t satisfying enough, he switched to crude dialect expressions. Ding Zhitong couldn’t understand but remembered a recent news story about Fujian people in North Point fighting back with long bamboo poles. She wondered if these people might be wary of Fujian natives.
She didn’t dare look back to see if anyone was chasing them. She just held his hand tightly, swinging her arms and taking long strides to keep up with his pace.
“Run!” Gan Yang shouted back at her, suddenly resembling that infuriating PE teacher again. “Don’t walk, Ding Zhitong! Run!”
Though surrounded by the dark, humid subtropical night, she was reminded of the snow-covered fields under Ithaca’s blue sky. They hadn’t changed; neither she nor he had. They seemed to run for ages, losing all sense of direction, their pursuers long gone.
When she finally came to her senses and recognized the street signs, she slowed down and said, “Stop running, we’ve gone too far. I live just…”
He stopped and turned to look at her, smiling. She couldn’t understand what was so amusing but found herself smiling too. That phrase came to mind again: “shooting fireworks.” How could two people, nearly seventy years old combined, still act this way?
So they walked back one block until they reached her apartment building.
She tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t let go. He said to her, “Tongtong, don’t go.”
“Who gave you permission to call me that?” she asked, looking at him.
He still held her hand, saying, “Tongtong has always been mine.”
His words made her heart plummet. Feeling light-headed, she used her free hand to find her card and open the security door, leading him upstairs. They began kissing in the elevator, her hair disheveled as he smoothed it back, his hands moving from her earlobes to her cheeks, then from her neck to her collarbone. She felt his palms burning hot, and he felt every inch of skin he touched was on fire, as if parched with thirst. The elevator ascended directly to the twelfth-floor apartment. Exiting the lift, they didn’t bother turning on the lights, moving towards the bedroom by the faint glow of the entryway sensor light, as if by unspoken agreement.
In the darkness, they fell onto the bed. She looked into his dimly glowing eyes and asked, “Do you remember Dr. Chen’s biography?”
“What?” he asked.
“1968, 1975, 1987,” she recited the years one by one. “Even we’ve been through it twice already – 2008, 2015. What if it happens again?”
“So what if it does?” he countered.
“Maybe everything will change overnight, and we’ll feel there’s no point in staying together.”
“That won’t happen.”
“You’re so sure?”
“We’re both different from before.”
“How so?”
“You said this kind of thing would happen again. When it does, we’ll know…” His words were whispered against her ear, so soft that the air conditioner’s hum seemed to carry them away.
He looked at her, then kissed her, as if still answering all her questions.
Only when they made love did she remember – yes, this is how it was. This is how it should be.
Desire at this intensity was almost painful, blurring the line between a sharp blade and sweet honey. But she knew this feeling couldn’t be found anywhere else, so she simply surrendered to it, thinking of nothing else. The first time, she had to brace herself against his urgent movements. The second time became a long, drawn-out game of pleasure and tension. They rolled on the bed, kissing deeply, as if reacquainting themselves with each other’s bodies through lips and tongues, unwilling to miss even the smallest detail. Even at the end, when their gasps and irrepressible moans made her chest tighten, he continued to kiss her, as if offering his entire self to her.