The window that had been stuck for three years — he pried it open with one hand.
The wooden frame gave a crack, like something snapping deep inside. Paint flakes sifted down, white, mixed with rust dust, catching in the fine hairs on the back of his hand.
On the third day of Zhiyuan’s business trip, the building management sent someone for the summer maintenance check. When I opened the door, he was standing in the light of the hallway, tool bag slung across his shoulder, a wide patch of his gray tank top soaked through with sweat, plastered to his chest, rising and falling with his breath.
“Ma’am, you filed a repair request for a window?”
I had filed one, three years ago. Zhiyuan said forget it — we have central air, what do you need a window open for. That repair slip ended up at the bottom of a drawer, tucked away with the pill organizer and the spare keys.
Stepping inside, he glanced first at the thermometer on the wall and smiled. “Nice and cool in here.”
Cool. A constant twenty-four degrees, every season the same. I opened my mouth, and found nothing to say.
He knelt at the windowsill and worked out the old sealant. Strip by strip, the dried-hard caulk came away under his screwdriver, like an old skin being peeled off. His forearms were taut, and sweat ran down his jaw and dripped onto the sill, striking a small dark point.
I went to pour him a glass of ice water; condensation slid down the glass all the way to my wrist. When he took it, his knuckles brushed mine — hot. So this was the temperature of a human hand.
“Done.” He pushed the window outward.
The instant the wind poured in, the curtain billowed full, swept against my face, then slowly settled. Gardenia, sun-softened asphalt, and the salt of his sweat came into the room together.
For the first time in three years, there was wind in this room. I stood in it and heard my own heartbeat, louder than the hum of the air conditioning.
He bent his head to fill out the work order, pen cap clamped between his teeth. “The sealing strip has gone brittle. I’ll bring materials next week and replace it. Don’t shut the window all the way these next few days.”
Don’t shut it all the way. I folded the slip into a small square, put it in my apron pocket, and pressed it once through the cloth.
After he left, half a sweaty handprint remained on the windowsill, along with a small pile of paint flakes he had missed. I wiped it down three times. The last time, very slowly.
That night Zhiyuan called on video, a hotel’s white wall behind him — a climate-controlled white. He asked if everything was fine at home. I said yes, everything. Off camera, my thumb kept turning my wedding ring.
After we hung up, I went to stand at the window. The night wind lifted a corner of the curtain and let it fall, like someone breathing, slowly.
My phone lit up. An unknown number: “Ma’am, this is the repairman from this afternoon. The materials came in. Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient?”
The forecast said rain tomorrow. The first of the summer.
For a long time I stared at the words “would it be convenient.” The curtain swelled once more, grazing my arm as it came down.
I replied: It would.