[The Single Man — Me] I have been in this game for years and seen far too many faces, yet few of them stay with me afterward. She is one who did. Our first dinner was in a private room at an old-school Sichuan restaurant downtown. I pushed the door open and saw her at once, seated on the far side of the round table in a cream knit dress, shoulder line crisp, collarbones faint, hair loosely gathered at the back of her head. She lifted her eyes to me, and the look in that instant I remember to this day — not the appraising, testing gaze of a seasoned player, but a pure, unfeigned bashfulness, her whole face brimming with shyness. Her fair, lovely face was as though someone had gently pressed a switch, a thin blush spreading slowly from behind her ears to her cheeks. Something in me lurched: this did not look like someone from the scene at all — this was plainly some other man’s poised, well-bred wife.
[Her — The Wife] I knew my face had gone red. It is always like this with me; the harder I try to seem composed, the more the blood rushes up to my face. He was steadier than his photos, relaxed in the way he sat down, unhurried in the way he spoke. I set my hands on my knees, my fingertips twisting a corner of my skirt, and tried to keep my voice calm. But I knew perfectly well that the man across this table was not here to talk business — he was the one my husband and I had chosen together. At that thought, something beneath my poised little shell had already stirred a step ahead of me, a numb tingle crawling across the small of my back. I sipped my tea to hide the smile I could not keep from the corner of my mouth.
[Him — The Husband] I was the one who reached out to him first. These arrangements, from beginning to end, were driven by me — choosing the man, setting the time, booking the room; I took delight in all of it. In front of others my wife is forever that certain way: soft-spoken, well-mannered, the kind of woman anyone would praise for her upbringing. Only I know what sort of caged creature hides beneath that poise. I sat beside her, watching her blush before this stranger, watching her sip her wine in small mouthfuls, watching those lovely eyes of hers drift toward him now and then and flit away again — and what churned inside me was complicated: pride, a faint sourness I could not name, and a deeper anticipation that even I found shameful.
[The Single Man — Me] A few rounds of wine in, the mood loosened. She said little, yet every small detail of her was a lure. Now and then she would lift her head to answer, her voice soft and thread-fine, as though afraid of disturbing someone; at something amusing she would raise a hand to cover her lips as she smiled, and a pair of sweet little dimples would surface on her cheeks; at other times she would hold her glass and say nothing, only gazing over with tender, brimming eyes, a look so clinging it seemed it could be drawn out in threads — and after two seconds she would drop her lashes in a fluster. Every gesture of hers was a lesson in what it means to be a classical Eastern beauty. There is an old line that likens a woman to clouds longing for silk robes and blossoms longing for a face — verses I had always taken as mere poetry, until that night when I finally saw them come alive.
[Her — The Wife] He did not paw at me, nor did he say anything crude, and that put me a good deal more at ease. We talked about books, about travel, about the weather in each of our cities. Yet the more genteel he was, the harder the restlessness in me became to suppress. I stole glances at the hand around his glass, the knuckles distinct, faint blue veins on the back of it — and my mind wandered, unbidden, to another place entirely, so that my face flared again and I quickly ducked my head to drink and hide it. My husband gave my knee a light touch beneath the table, our private signal. I knew he had seen it all. I sat there poised, my legs pressed together — yet between those pressed-together thighs there was already a wetness that should not have been there, and I was so embarrassed I could hardly stay seated.
[Him — The Husband] I watched the two of them trade looks across the table, and the heat was just right. The more reserved she was, the more she hid that stirring desire behind her demure smile and lowered eyes, the richer the whole scene became. Some people do not understand; they think a husband like me is a pitiful cuckold. What they fail to grasp is that what truly makes me an addict is precisely this contrast: only I know the other side beneath her poise, and it is I who hand her over, piece by piece, with my own hands, to watch her bloom in another man’s grip. By the end of that meal no one had said it outright, yet all three of us knew perfectly well this was only the beginning.
[The Single Man — Me] After that dinner, nothing happened right away. She was reserved, and the arrangement needed the right occasion; all told it dragged on for nearly two months. Over those two months, that flushed face kept floating back to me. When the day was finally set, we agreed on half past five in the evening, a quiet hotel on the east side of the city. I arrived downstairs early and messaged her; she replied only with a room number. Riding up in the elevator, the anticipation in me was, honestly, thicker than on my very first day in this life.
[Her — The Wife] That afternoon I arrived at the room early and changed alone before the mirror, my hands a little unsteady. I peeled off that poised dress and put on, piece by piece, the things my husband and I had chosen together: on top, a white bandeau with a small ruffle trimming the neckline, kawaii as pajamas from a girls’ dormitory; below, a pair of wide-mesh black fishnets, the coarse diamond grid biting into my fair thighs, dividing the flesh into little squares — the cute and the erotic colliding on my body all at once. I looked at myself in the mirror and could scarcely recognize who I was. The person in that glass, her eyes wet and glistening, was no longer the smiling wife from the dinner table.
[The Single Man — Me] The instant the door opened, I froze for a moment. The reserved wife from the dinner table was gone. She stood in the warm amber light, the white bandeau tracing the soft curve of her chest, her legs wrapped layer upon layer in black fishnet, the skin beneath the grid dazzlingly pale. Cute, and utterly sensual. I drew her into my arms and, through the thin fabric, took a careful look at her — skin like ice and snow, like a lovingly made, pure-white, seductive plaything; her lips scarlet, her cheeks like peach, her knees soft, her feet fine, making a man want at once to cherish her with great care and, blood surging, to crush her in his hands. She leaned obediently against me, face tilted up, her lashes faintly trembling.
[Her — The Wife] When his arm circled me, my whole body went half-soft. He did not rush. First he bent his head and kissed my forehead, very lightly, then my ear, his warm breath sweeping over the shell of it, so that I could not help shrinking my neck. Close to my ear he murmured, “What do you think of me?” With my face buried against his chest I answered, muffled, “You’re very nice — quite impressive.” Then he asked, “And do you like me?” That one made me pause. Like — those words have never been light for me. I lifted my eyes, met his gaze, and said, so quietly it was barely audible, “…I do.” And having said it, I blushed first of all.
[Him — The Husband] I sat on the sofa by the window, watching her held in another man’s arms, listening to her say “I do” in that soft, tender voice she only has when she is most at ease. Strange as it was, there was none of the raging jealousy inside me that I had imagined; instead there was a satisfaction close to tenderness — I was the one who had drawn out this side of her, I was the one who understood how to grant her what she wanted. I poured myself a glass of water and watched quietly, like a man who is both the director and the only member of the audience. The night had only just begun.
[The Single Man — Me] She tilted her face up of her own accord, so I followed the moment and kissed her. At first it was only lips brushing lips, very light, tentative; but she grew impatient fast, her small hands climbing again and again to my shoulders, my nape, pressing me down. I nipped gently at her lower lip with the tips of my teeth; she gave a soft “mm,” and her tongue slid in, shallow at first then deep, twining greedily around mine. That kiss burned all the way from reserve to abandon. When at last we broke apart, her lips were rosy, her eyes hazy, her chest rising and falling — the smiling Eastern beauty from the dinner table was now gulping for breath, her eyes brimming with a spring tide that would not dissolve.