the Flowers of Last Year
April 13th
The sun is warm. A tree outside the window has rushed to decorate itself with a mass of buds. Its shadow cast upon the table, a variegated wash painting of blossoming plums. All those vivid images from last spring remain in light and shade alone, leaving only an aftertaste in memory.
Everything is fine. But my mind is wandering off until the girl passes by my window.
Whispering songs, she is coming from the road with her ponytail swinging back and forth. Her canary shirt and brown pants tightly wrap her firm young body. She looks like a winter jasmine swayed by the wind.
I want to invite her in; or at least say “hello.” However, at the moment, I cannot do anything but stand at the window, staring.
Perhaps it’s the flowering tree that catches her eye. She stops under my window right after passing it. She turns her head and looks at the buds. She smiles, and then, she sees me.
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Wonderful.” I murmur.
Both people and flowers are wonderful.
May 9th
“Wow, the flowers are in bloom! I can pick one!” The girl is crying as if she has just discovered the New World. She leans out of the window and tries to reach me. Her fine white fingers nip a cluster of half-opened buds from the tip of my branch.
“Ah.” He answers, but doesn’t look at me. He puts his hand on the girl’s exposed waist, and rubs it tenderly.
The girl twists herself gently and draws her hand back after hesitating a little while, “But the color looks too old. I don’t like light purple. It looks like it’s been faded by the sun.”
“Umm,” He answers again. Gently grasping the girl’s hands, he turns her tiny body around in his arms. Lost in himself, he mindlessly adds: “Too old…They‘re like last year’s flowers.”
I try not to make any noise, but still cannot help shivering. The rains of petals are carried off by a gust across the sky. They drift down slowly, turning the ground into light purple.
He lowers his head, and, for the first time, kisses the girl from dry to wet, gently, but passionately. However, his eyes are wandering around again.
Finally, he gazes at my crying.
July 29th
Although the curtain is drawn, it cannot keep the heat out. His body is burning hot, like a huge searing iron on my body. I push him away and turn around to the wall to cool off. But the wall is hot too. The liquid on my body smells.
I roll back. Holding behind his sweaty neck, I kiss him from forehead to chin, and suddenly, sharply bite his shoulder. His body is working for me. I’m in ecstasy at this thought alone.
He throws himself on me at my arousal. I see the shadow of twigs waving violently through the curtain…Finally, a breath of air gets in.
Sometime later, he becomes quiet, still, looking like he’s falling sleep. I pounce on him, bend my head over his crotch, and try to wake it up. But it’s shortening inch by inch in my mouth. I suddenly feel a thwarted vanity, more deadly than heat…I can hardly think of anything to talk about,
“Do you think we can eat the cherries from the tree?”
“What cherries?”
“Cherries from the tree outside your window. The flowers are gone quite a long time ago …Shouldn’t there be cherries?”
“Are there always fruits after flowers?” He closes his eyes. I open mine. Those insatiable expressions are ebbing away.
His face is as calm as white sands now.
I place his head on my breast to let him listen to my heartbeat, “Honey, be my son in your next life.”
“Hmm? Umm… No.”
“I’ll feed you milk, dress you in many colors, teach you to walk.”
“No, no…”He utters, but a naughty smile emerges. It looks like he doesn’t dislike the idea.
“Then you be Daddy. Feed me milk, give me bear hugs, teach me to speak.”
“No, no, no…”
“How about my brother?”
“Even worse.”
“Then what do you want to be in my next life?”
“Your love.” Eyes still closed, he squeezes out a little smile.
“Impossible…” I suddenly feel despair, as if some force is pulling me away from him. “If in every life, you are my love, then what’s the difference between this one and the next? Things won’t repeat themselves…We won’t be lovers again… ”
He frowns in disagreement. But the drowsiness overcomes his will to dispute. At last, he begins to snore slightly.
The wind is rising, and the tree is shaking. I lower my head to get close to his ear, “If I became the tree outside your window, when the flowers were blossoming, would you think of me?”