【Husband · The Listener】
Su Ting and I have been married for almost ten years. The first couple of years were lively enough, and then it turned into a weekend chore — lights off, roll over, get it done, turn away and sleep. Neither of us did anything wrong; it was just that the freshness ran out like the hot water in a washing machine, less each time you used it, until you turned the tap and got only lukewarm. I am thirty-six; she is two years younger. We rent a two-story old house in this small riverside town — living space downstairs, bedroom upstairs — and to get in you pass through two doors: an iron grille gate rusted at the edges, and an inner door covered in old wood veneer. Those two doors kept coming back to me later, so I will set them down here first.
What brought some life back to the bed was a piece of filth. I do not know which time it was, halfway through it once, the mood so heavy it was about to stall, when out of some nerve I did not know I had, I leaned to her ear and whispered: how about I let Lei come fuck you? Su Ting stiffened first, then, as if something had been lit inside her, her waist sank down and a moan I had not heard in a long time squeezed out of her throat. That night we did it especially smoothly, and afterward we both pretended nothing had happened, but I knew in my heart it was that line that had done it.
Lei is a buddy I got to know through a distant cousin. He is in the building-materials business, big and tall, with a mouth that is never serious. Qiang is a friend Lei brought along, his voice hoarse enough to be recognizable — one word out of him and you know it is him with your eyes shut. Both of them are bachelors, and every few days they came to my place to mooch a meal, watch the game, and drink into the small hours. Su Ting complained out loud that they were noisy, but she never held back when it came to refilling their plates. I did not read anything into these details at the time; looking back now, every one of them was like a fuse laid down in advance.
That piece of filth became the switch in our bed. Later it came off my tongue more and more easily: let Qiang come up too, both of them fucking you at once, can you take it? Su Ting kept her eyes shut, her face buried in the pillow, and mumbled back: I can take it… tell them to come. Of course I knew it was pillow talk, a stage two middle-aged people built for themselves in the dark, a stage nobody had to answer for. On that stage anything could be acted out, and when the lights came up the show was over, and nobody would take it seriously. At least, that was what I believed then.
【Su Ting · Wife】
The first time he said that line in my ear, I really did feel a flush of shame, and right after it that spot in my chest went hot — hot enough to startle me. We have been married ten years; he lost the way to that switch long ago, doing it like handing in homework while I played along, counting in my head how much longer. But the moment he mentioned Lei’s name, that face actually flashed through my mind — those eyes that were never behaving at the dinner table, those arms with veins bulging as he hauled boxes. Just that one flash, and down below I went soft, went wet.
I did not dare admit it, not even to myself. So every time he said it, I plugged it back with a filthier line: tell them to come. And as I said it I buried my face in the pillow, afraid he would see the thing in my eyes. It was not shyness; it was something else, a burning hope I had no right to have. I told myself it was only a bit of spice in bed, wild medicine to keep this nearly-drained marriage alive, a mouthful to freshen you up — who would actually go and fill the prescription.
But Lei and Qiang came to the house more and more often. Lei had to tease me a couple of lines every time, saying Ting-jie, with cooking like yours you should open a shop, and all the while his eyes drifted toward my collar. Qiang talked little, but that busted-gong voice of his kept rubbing, line by line, right against my heart. Chopping vegetables in the kitchen, I could feel a gaze clinging to my waist and sliding down; I did not turn around, but the knife in my hand slipped crooked. I swallowed all of it, pretended it was not there. A woman at this age is best at pressing down the things that burn, acting as if nothing at all is going on in the house.
【Lei · Single Man】
The old man is a funny one. The things he says to Ting-jie in bed himself — Su Ting turns around and swaps signals about them with us, not spoken out loud, that kind of look. Men, right? A couple of drinks at the table, and some things don’t need spelling out. The first time I noticed Ting-jie was when she bent down to get beer from the bottom of the fridge, that figure pausing for a beat; I traded a glance with Qiang, and both us single guys knew exactly what was what inside.
I know that house of his. Two doors, iron outside, wood inside, the locks all loose; push the iron gate and it creaks down half the stairwell. Why would I remember junk like this? But I remembered it. When a man’s got his mind on a place, he can remember even its door hinges for a lifetime. I told Qiang: this house’s doors, sooner or later we’ll be going in and out of them. Qiang gave a muffled little laugh with that busted voice and said, Lei, you’ve got no gate on your mouth. I said, what’s a door? A door’s made to be pushed open.
In those days we went to the old man’s place almost every day. Watching the game was a cover, drinking was a cover; who each of us was really going for, all three big men at the table knew in their own hearts. Su Ting refilled our plates, apron tied at the waist, a waist so slim it made your hands itch. The old man sat there laughing and pushing drinks, and I always felt something else hid in that laugh of his — like he was waiting, waiting for a day nobody was willing to be the first to say out loud. Fine, then I’ll wait with him. Some doors don’t need smashing; you just need patience, and they’ll open on their own.