Yet, Ai Ling still felt a sort of fascination about what the woman had done, to give up what she had with Wei Xiang to be a mistress to a married man.
The break with Ian was not as clean as Ai Ling had wanted. Though she had ignored all his calls and emails, he still turned up unannounced on her doorstep several times; once, he had made such a ruckus that her parents had no choice but to let him in, and she had to shut herself in her room while he pleaded with her parents to talk some sense into her, to make her change her mind. He cried on every occasion. Ai Ling’s parents had asked her to resolve the issue with Ian, to get back together, because Ian was a good man, and it was hard to find someone like him. Ai Ling ignored her parents’ advice, and even in the heat of her inner conflict, she chose to stick to her resolve, to not budge from her decision.
The months that followed the break-up were a long period of adjustments, changes and coming to terms with her new status, as if whoever she was when she was with Ian had to be remade in the light of the current circumstance. She had chosen to avoid any contact with Ian’s friends; some had chosen to take his side, and Ai Ling was told in no uncertain terms, from their messages and emails, about how they felt about the whole situation. Others were more sympathetic, and it was the latter group who Ai Ling did not want to see. She did not feel the need to justify herself to them. Apart from this, Ai Ling took to her new life with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, with an unspoken, underlying hope that whatever she was doing would somehow, one way or another, lead her to a clearer perspective of her life, a deeper understanding of her own actions and decisions. It was a long way to go, Ai Ling had to admit, and she had to watch herself, lest she get distracted by a thousand and one things.
“And you don’t have any regrets after the whole incident, after the break-up?” Wei Xiang posed this question to her, more than once.
Ai Ling had often wondered about Wei Xiang’s longstanding interest in her failed relationship with Ian. They had been dating for five months then, and Ai Ling liked the pace the relationship was taking—consistent, steady, unhurried. They had taken their time to know each other, and after the first flush of romance had come and gone, what remained was a growing bond of affection. What they agreed upon was to be frank with each other, no matter what.
“What’s the point of regret? Regret is for something you did not do when you should be doing it. And I did what I did. The rest is history to me. It doesn’t matter. A lot of things don’t matter after a while.”
“But surely you must have felt something like regret, during the months after the break-up.”
“I can’t remember now. Maybe I did. It doesn’t matter anyway.”
Sometimes, Ai Ling wondered whether Wei Xiang saw something in her that she could not see. Was she the kind of woman a man would feel an instinctive need to protect, to take care of, or did she appeal to a type of man who liked her assertiveness, her independence? Ai Ling knew how she looked—her lanky frame, small breasts, shapely nose a few degrees from aquiline—but how the different, unequal parts of her body added up to something that could tell the whole story of her character was never apparent, something that remained a mystery to her. Sometimes, when she looked deeply into herself, she would feel a brief alarm at the chasm that existed between her external and inner selves.
“But why do you like me?” she asked Wei Xiang in bed, while spending her first night over at his place.
“Well, you are really beautiful and sweet and gentle and caring and…”
“No, I mean, what do you really like about me?”
“You are very special…”
“Are you sure you know anything about me at all?”
“I don’t, but I want to, a bit at a time.”
“You know I can be stubborn and petty at times, right? And I’ve my moods, too.”
“Yes, I know. But…”
“But what?”
“But I still like you.”
“You’re hopeless.”
When she said yes to Wei Xiang’s proposal, Ai Ling knew she was making the right decision. She had expected it for some time—they had been going out for three years at that point—and she was already preparing herself mentally for it. She had just hit twenty-eight then, and knew she was happy with Wei Xiang, a happiness she knew she had a role in its nurturing.
And at that moment—when she said yes—she had meant exactly what she had said. And, for once, in a long time, she had not doubted herself, or the choice she had made.
7
CODY
Late at night, you stumble out of a recurring dream, like a suffocating man breaking through an invisible barrier, your breaths laboured, your body covered with a film of sweat. Shards of the dream have lodged themselves in your fevered mind. Turning to face the blank wall, you can see in the faint illumination hairline cracks creeping up like railway tracks, disappearing into the ceiling. You stare at the wall for a long time to calm yourself down.
You drift into overlapping states of wakefulness and sleep—you can no longer tell which impressions are real or dreams. You can still feel your body working, like a well-tended machine: the breaths in your chest (in-hold-out, repeat), the tiny pulse in your wrist (tick-tick-tick), the curl-in-curl-out movements of your fingers (twitching, twitching). Life as a machine, going and going and going, persistent, dumb, unbearable.
You look up at the expanse of the white wall, all the way to the ceiling. Space, so much space—how could one ever fill it up? You stare until your eyes—dry like sandpaper—start to hurt, tiny specks floating across your vision. You study the unmoving shadow on the wall, a dark mountainous ridge.
You stretch out your hands, and the muscles in them ache anew. Triggered by the sudden movement, your body stirs to life—a forest catching fire. Flashes of heat flare at your joints, moving outwards. With the quickening of blood through your body, you can feel your cock hardening. You reach into your shorts and stroke yourself, mind still dazed. Slowly the act itself takes over, demanding every ounce of your attention, sinking you into the vagaries of desire. You find yourself masturbating to images of Chee Seng, salvaged from the depths of your memories.
“Really, you have to meet him,” Ai Ling had gushed over the phone. “He’s a catch. You’ll like him.”
She had called Cody during his lunch break, bursting with the news that she had met an old friend from junior college, a teacher, and over coffee with him, found out that he was gay and single.
“I don’t know,” Cody said, playing down her enthusiasm. Ai Ling had tried, unsuccessfully in past attempts, to fix up blind dates for him, whenever she met gay men from her previous jobs or from other friends and acquaintances. She had believed, without checking the person’s background—as long as he was gay—that he would be suitable for Cody. To get her off his back, after her first few attempts, he had gone on a date with a guy she had highly recommended, only to find him a complete bore, with no other interests besides his job as a stockbroker in a securities firm.
“I’ll be your chaperone, to take the pressure off. You really need to meet him,” she said.
“Come on, you’re making me seem desperate.”
“Well, you’re always complaining to me about being single, and how there are no longer any good men around. Or am I wrong?”
“Fine. Why don’t you arrange something and I’ll come along?”