the country and my visa runs out.
I should think about going home.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
Like I want to think about any of that.
In no time at all, John has returned with two cold Yanjings. He hands one to me with a small flourish, then holds up his bottle.
‘Ganbei,’ he says with a grin. Drink it dry.
We clink bottles and drink.
‘So, Yili, are you married? Do you have children?’
I try not to roll my eyes. Just about every Chinese person I meet asks me these questions.
‘Aren’t you gonna ask how old I am?’ I reply, as this is the inevitable third question in the ‘Way Too Personal’ trifecta.
John waves a hand. ‘Oh, no. I can see you are still very young. Maybe … not thirty?’
Actually, I’m twenty-six. ‘Just about.’
‘But no husband or children?’
‘No kids. Yes on the husband. But we’re separated.’
John shakes his head sadly. ‘This is the nature of the modern times, I think. The family life always suffers.’
‘Are you married, John?’
‘Me?’ For a moment, John looks uncomfortable. ‘No.’
‘Are your parents upset?’
Because if there’s one thing a Chinese son is supposed to do, it’s get married and have kids.
‘I just tell them to have patience,’ John says dismissively. ‘I am still the young man. I have … I have … benchmarks.’
‘Benchmarks?’
‘Of accomplishment. Before I am to have children. I have not achieved these yet, but I achieve them soon, I think.’
‘Oh,’ I say, and wipe my forehead. I’m already feeling a little buzzed. Not surprising, considering all I’ve had to eat today is a couple bites of spaghetti.
‘You see, it is hard if you are a young man in China and you are not rich,’ John continues, warming to his topic. ‘Because the Chinese women, they want a successful man. And they can choose who they want, because we have more men than women.’
He leans in closer to me. ‘Some Chinese women, they have second husband. Do you understand my meaning?’
‘Ummm …’ I think about it. Take another swallow of beer. ‘More than one?’
‘Not real husband,’ John confides. ‘More like … boyfriend. But these women, they have money. So they take care of boyfriend. Like concubine. You know that word?’
‘Sure,’ I say, finishing my beer. ‘My husband has one of those.’
‘Oh.’ I can see comprehension slowly dawning. ‘Your husband … he has …’ And here John ducks his head and sneaks a little grin. ‘The yellow fever, perhaps.’
‘Yeah, he’s fucking a Chinese girl,’ I snap, my knuckles whitening around the beer bottle, ‘if that’s what you want to know.’
John flushes red. ‘I am sorry. I just … I just made a bad joke. Please forgive me.’
His face is so open, so kind, that for a moment I’m flooded with guilt. And something else. Warmth, I guess. Just from having somebody be nice to me.
How pathetic is that?
I let out a big sigh. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath.
‘That’s okay.’
The weird thing is, suddenly it is okay. It’s been over between me and Trey for a long time. And considering what it is that held us together, the thing we really shared, maybe I should start being glad that it’s over.
Starting right now.
‘I’m sorry too, John. It’s just that I’ve had a rough –’ A giggle starts bubbling up from my throat. ‘A rough six years or so,’ I manage.
I want to laugh, and keep laughing, and never stop.
John grins back. ‘Yili, would you like another beer?’
Maybe I shouldn’t, because I pounded this one, and I’m already kind of loaded. But it feels good. I feel lighter somehow.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
I lean against the wall and close my eyes. What would it be like, really being free from Trey? Just not caring about him any more. Not ever seeing him again or having anything to do with him, and not having that feel like some hole in the place where my soul is supposed to be, like the part of me that’s able to care about somebody else has gone missing.
Not ever thinking about those times again.
You’ll always think about those times, I tell myself. Always. But maybe, maybe you can think about those times and, from now on, they won’t hurt you so much. Those times, they’ll just be things that happened in the past, and that’s all.
‘Yili?’
I open my eyes. Here’s John standing in front of me, holding two bottles of beer. He’s actually pretty handsome, not really baby-faced; he has a strong jaw, bright eyes, light stubble on his chin. And he’s taller than I am. Solid, with some muscle. I think I can see the outline of his chest beneath the T-shirt.
One World, One Dream.
‘Do you feel okay?’
‘Sure. I’m just a little tired.’
John hands me a beer, already opened, like the last one. ‘We could go sit down somewhere,’ he says, ‘if you are tired.’
‘Okay,’ I say. I’m tired of all the noise, anyway.
We make our way outside. ‘I know a good place,’ John says. I stifle a giggle. Does he want to make out or something? I might be up for that. It might be fun, messing around a little. He’s cute, I’ve decided. I take another swallow of beer.
It’s a nice night. I’m warm enough with just my light jacket. John leads me down a bricked path that leads to a garden of sorts. I’ve been here before. There’s a fountain and a marble wall inscribed with calligraphy, the grooves highlighted by gold paint. Some fucking proverb about wisdom and self-cultivation, probably.
We sit on the stone bench by the fountain. I can hear the music from the party, but it’s so faint that I feel like I could almost be imagining it, making up music from the gurgle and flow of the fountain’s water.
‘This where you used to take girls?’
John
