Qu Hua wasn’t rushing like before. Through her clothes, he slowly traced Mujing’s entire silhouette, his eyes never leaving hers.
During Mujing’s last visit, before she left, he had given her a large travel bag—one he had meant to send but never did.
Time had been too short then; they hadn’t even embraced. He had helped her with her luggage onto the bus to the train station, and at the station, he had protected her as she boarded, secured her luggage, and then jumped off. He had gazed at her face from outside, but before he could get a clear look, the train had departed.
Now his fingers kept tracing her body, as if fingers held more memory than eyes. He moved slowly as if only such deliberate motions could preserve the memory.
Mujing tilted her head slightly, the scrutiny in her eyes eventually giving way to desire. She momentarily forgot the question she had been pondering.
Seeming to realize her yearning, she turned her face to Qu Hua and said, “You’re too tired today. I’ll go prepare your bath water.” He hadn’t rested since boarding the train; even if she needed him, he wouldn’t have the energy.
As soon as Mujing entered the bathroom, Qu Hua followed, locking the door and reaching for her buttons. Mujing caught his hands, “You should rest early.”
“I have enough energy to help you bathe.”
“I bathed before you came back.”
“But you’ve gotten my sweat on you now.”
When Qu Hua said he would help her bathe, that’s exactly what he did, treating her more gently than he would himself.
His fingers were skilled at many things; though naturally left-handed, both hands were equally dexterous. The bathroom light seemed softer than outside, and the Qu Hua in Mujing’s eyes was gentle too—gently tormenting her, making her uncomfortable. His fingers teased her, tempting but never satisfying, as if enjoying watching her struggle with desire. The more she struggled, the more pleased he seemed. Mujing faced Qu Hua, hands against the wall, water running down her face, head tilted back, her eyes clouded with mist. Qu Hua rested his chin on her shoulder, his fingers sensing her body temperature. “You must have missed me.”
“Just as much as you did.”
If he missed her, she missed him; if he didn’t, neither did she.
Mujing prevented further questions by rising on her toes to kiss him.
Qu Hua saved his limited small talk for his father-in-law, asking timely questions that gave Old Fang room to expound, making him a rare good son-in-law in Old Fang’s eyes. In front of their parents, they rarely spoke directly, leaving conversation to others, occasionally meeting eyes before quickly looking away. Qu Hua only discussed serious matters with Mujing, still consulting her on medical questions in bed, his body language far richer than his words. Mujing learned for the first time how many emotions fingers alone could express. Though Qu Hua never asked her to stay, Mujing felt it through his body—he was trying to keep her.
Old Fang didn’t take his daughter back but felt little regret. He saw the old spark return to her, the same brilliance from her youth. When Mujing said she was doing well now, he believed it must be true.
After her parents left, when her department received a spot for visiting scholars abroad, Mujing submitted her application without consulting Qu Hua. Regardless, she was determined to go. She wanted to see what her foreign counterparts were doing, identify the gaps, and catch up. She also knew she would certainly be chosen.
This visiting scholarship would last at least a year. Mujing had a feeling that wouldn’t be enough—she might stay longer. She wasn’t sure if Qu Hua would wait for her return. Since their marriage, they had spent more time apart than together, and now she was headed somewhere unreachable by train. Throughout their marriage, Qu Hua had mostly had a wife in name only. They had few reasons to maintain their marriage, but many reasons to divorce.
Yet she didn’t want to divorce Qu Hua.
Mujing hadn’t told Qu Hua about applying for the visiting scholarship in America.
Outside of work, Mujing revived her soup dumpling-making skills, something she had only done twice when first married to Qu Hua. Now she made them on weekends, along with elaborate soups for him. The first time she made soup, she was lost in thought and lost track of time. Though the soup looked fine, she packed it in a thermos and brought it to Qu Hua. He drank it quickly, head down. Young Dr. Zhao in the duty room, seeing his senior’s wife bringing food again, remembered her previous soup dumplings and couldn’t help looking twice. Mujing had made plenty of soup and told Dr. Zhao not to be polite. He sheepishly brought his bowl over, asking for a spoonful. At first taste, his expression changed.
But Mujing had given him a full bowl, and he couldn’t possibly pour it out. Dr. Zhao watched his senior drinking the soup, gaining new respect for him—able to drink such soup without any sign of discomfort while discussing medical questions with his wife. Though their conversation was entirely professional, Dr. Zhao sensed something else in the air. He noticed Mujing’s face reddening, though he couldn’t find anything in their words to cause it. Their exchanged glances made him feel he should give them privacy.
Mujing hadn’t noticed Dr. Zhao’s struggling expression and focused on answering Qu Hua’s questions. That question had been interrupted in bed two nights ago, and now whenever Mujing thought of it, she recalled that evening.
Dr. Zhao didn’t take a second sip before carrying his bowl out.
Previously, no matter how intimate Mujing and Qu Hua were in the bedroom, outside they felt awkward even sharing a spoon. Mujing grabbed Qu Hua’s spoon and tasted herself. It was unexpectedly awful.
Qu Hua, as if having lost his sense of taste, said it wasn’t bad.
Mujing told him to stop drinking it.
Qu Hua looked at her with a smile, “Didn’t you make it for me? Why can’t I drink it?”
Mujing grabbed his bowl, “You can have more next time.”
Qu Hua, unwilling to waste food, filled another bowl. Mujing faced the consequences of her cooking—the soup left its bitter taste on his lips, and though she hadn’t drunk the soup, she tasted the bitterness anyway.
Since Qu Hua’s return from his aid mission, his department noticed changes in him, though they couldn’t pinpoint what. He seemed to work harder, and the department only admired Dr. Qu more, especially since even his wife’s visits involved discussions of medical statistics.
When autumn came, the visiting scholar list was published, with Mujing’s name on it.
This was expected, and even her joy was calm.
By now, she had to tell Qu Hua, no matter what.
Mujing hadn’t expected to see Qu Hua at the school gate. He rarely finished work before her, and when he did, it was only after working for twenty-four hours straight. Seeing him, she smiled instinctively, quickening her pace, not wanting to keep him waiting.
A colleague congratulated her on making the visiting scholar list. Mujing reflexively said thank you. She didn’t look at Qu Hua’s expression, certain he would be unhappy.
But Qu Hua said nothing. He took her out to eat, ordering dishes that perfectly matched her taste, though she had no appetite to appreciate the chef’s skills. After dinner, he took her to a symphony concert—tickets had been hard to get for this internal performance. Until the concert ended, Qu Hua hadn’t mentioned a word about her visiting scholarship.
Mujing waited for Qu Hua to ask, but he didn’t say a word.
In his pocket, Qu Hua carried keys to a new apartment. His work unit had allocated housing, and he had paid in advance. Along with the keys, he had prepared his savings for Mujing, enough to furnish the empty apartment adequately.
But he gave neither the keys nor the savings to Mujing.
Mujing had wanted to build up their emotional connection before officially telling Qu Hua about her scholarship, hoping it would help them weather the separation. Now she wasn’t sure if they had built up enough.
Walking together, the deep blue night held just a few stars.
Mujing reached for Qu Hua’s hand, but met no response, forcing her to return her hand to her pocket.
Qu Hua took out his cigarette case and lit one, and smoke obscured half his face, leaving Mujing unable to see him.
He hadn’t smoked in front of her for a long time. Mujing wanted to cough but covered her mouth, suppressing the sound. She looked up at the night sky.
“You’ll wait for me to return.” Not “Will you wait for me?”—though phrased as a question, it was a statement.
“I’m tired of waiting.” He couldn’t help but smile bitterly. What had he done to make Mujing think he was someone patient enough to wait, not just once, but again and again?
He asked her, “Fang Mujing, what am I to you?” There wasn’t even resentment in the question—it was too flat, devoid of emotion. He could accept being her stepping stone when she was struggling, but he refused to be merely her backdrop now.
“You’re my husband.”
“That can change anytime. You needn’t feel any moral pressure—I was the one who proposed.” He had proposed to her; she needed him, but she hadn’t begged him to marry her. Even if she had used him, it was his own choice, and he could take full responsibility for that choice.
“But I want to stay that way.” Mujing pinched out the cigarette in Qu Hua’s mouth and rose on her toes to kiss him. Qu Hua seemed to see again that arrogant look from her younger days when she had regarded everyone else as beneath her notice.
In the sparse night sky, cicadas chirped. People walked in the distance, and the security patrol made their rounds—improper relations between men and women were their primary concern, and even married couples could be taken in for education for such public behavior. But Mujing saw no one else. She held Qu Hua’s face, licking his lips, trying to part his teeth, embracing him to feel his warmth.
Qu Hua straightened Mujing’s shoulders, struggling to maintain distance. “Is this what you want so badly?”
Mujing looked at Qu Hua with challenging eyes. “Don’t you want it too?”
Qu Hua looked at the person before him, both strange and familiar. He hadn’t liked that look in her eyes from the first time he saw her photo in the monthly magazine. Mujing’s hand reached into Qu Hua’s pocket, forcefully intertwining her fingers with his.
They arrived at Qu Hua’s newly assigned apartment. It was new but undecorated, still cement walls. Qu Hua hadn’t told Mujing this was his house. He pressed her against the door, pulling at her skirt. Mujing turned back to kiss his mouth, and Qu Hua bit her lips until they hurt.
They pressed close together. Mujing asked if they could go home—she didn’t want to do it here. There were no contraceptives available here, and she couldn’t get pregnant.
She didn’t say the last part, but Qu Hua knew what she was thinking, remembering her previous lie when she told him she only wanted to live with him, not have children.
He wasn’t the type to use her words from when she was struggling to shame her now. He released her. “Fix your clothes. I’ll take you home.”
He turned away, lit another cigarette, and took out a bankbook. There was no need for decorating now. He handed her the bankbook, telling her to exchange it for some dollars to use. After being husband and wife, this was all he could give her.
Mujing looked at his bankbook and said, “Keep it for yourself.”
“It’s not much in dollars, and I have my monthly salary.” He wanted to tell her to take care but knew she would certainly take good care of herself, so there was no need for such empty words.
Mujing’s eyes couldn’t hide her expectation. “You’ll wait for me to return, won’t you?”
“I want a normal married life.” He could accommodate her when times were hard, but now her difficulties were long past, and he was tired of being dispensable in their marriage.
Qu Hua buttoned her clothes, maintaining distance throughout the process.
Since learning about her plans to study abroad, something had seemed to separate them.
“If you went abroad for work, I would wait for you too. I would always wait for you.”
“I know. You think it’s acceptable even if we don’t see each other for three or five years. If your colleague hadn’t told me, when were you planning to tell me? The day you left?” Things were different now from before. She should at least hesitate now. If she had asked him to help her choose between staying and going abroad, he would have even helped her choose the latter. But she hadn’t given him that chance. She only made decisions and then informed him.
She could endure anything—she could endure everything. Her heart had long since hardened like a stone; nothing seemed to move her. Even if he hadn’t married her, even if life had been harder, she could have persisted until today. She had never thought about death, not even once. But with him, things were different. Mujing pondered his words—which day? She had wanted to wait until the day he couldn’t live without her to tell him. That day, even if he hated her and resented her, he would still wait for her. That day—she didn’t know when that day would be.
Qu Hua opened the door for Mujing, asking her to leave so he could take her home. Mujing closed the door again, embracing him from behind, once more seeking confirmation: “You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”
She stubbornly refused to use a question, making even her plea proud, almost like a curse: “Whatever others can give you, I can give you later. Whatever others can’t give you, I can give you too. You’ll never find anyone better than me.”
Though much weaker than Qu Hua, she held him tightly now, absolutely refusing to let go, repeatedly confirming: “You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”
Mujing asked again and again but never received an answer. She closed her eyes, letting tears fall. These tears slid onto Qu Hua’s neck, and her embrace wasn’t as tight as before. Just as she was about to give up, Qu Hua suddenly gripped her hand, turning to kiss the tears on her face.
She didn’t say “You’ll wait for me, won’t you” again.
She knew he would certainly wait for her.