The Story of November

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A cramped, confined space.
A dim, ambiguous light fills the room from head to toe.
Curves and shadows.
Fingers entwined and separated.
Strands of hair playfully bitten at the corners of the lips.
Eyes weakly open, closed with a faint, sweet anticipation and a tormented pain.
Who are you?
Why are you kneeling at my feet?
Your hair rubs against the hard skin of my kneecaps, until that hardness softens.
Your hands embrace a pair of unsteady, trembling legs—are you giving strength or drawing strength from them?
You look up.
Innocent eyes.
Gentle expression.
Are you waiting for me to capture you or for me to submit?
You say: Let me stay…
This room has nothing to do with you or me.
It's just temporary lodging. So in the cold, dimly lit room, I dare not let you hold me like this, because my legs will refuse without hesitation.
In the cramped bathroom, cornered by you, scrutinized by the overhead light, my heart is churning with many emotions… For a moment, your embrace, your kneeling embrace, evokes tenderness and affection.
My chest heaved.
I wondered if I could hope your hands would take over more…
I wondered why your lips, your moist lips, your soft lips, were landing on my defenseless inner thighs? How could the delicate skin there withstand your warm breath, and the sweetness it carried? How could it withstand your intoxicated lowering of your head?
I ran my hands through your short, dark hair, the ends like fallen awns of wheat, rising and falling layer by layer between my fingers… I wanted to grab your hair, to save my falling soul, but I couldn't grasp it; it seemed… I was slowly tolerating your exploration.
I stood in the cramped space, leaning against the washbasin, the cold marble surface pressing against my back. My head was tilted back, a powerless tilt, a desperate tilt, my hair hanging loosely… I opened my eyes—and saw my flushed cheeks blooming in the mirror, a decadent vibrancy.
I long for you to stand up, to hold me tight, to keep me balanced, to give me something to lean on, to hold my wildly beating heart firmly in your embrace, to offer profound comfort from body to soul… In moments of passion,
you still ask: Can you not leave?
Sometimes you bury yourself deep inside, sometimes you peek out, questioning my vulnerability.
Finally, unable to bear the emptiness in my heart, I take your hand, making you face me from a high vantage point, embracing me, engulfing me.
I hold your cool lips tightly, unwilling to let go for a moment.
My waist is pressed against your body, my head still tilted back, your strength always so compelling that I cannot resist…
I fear most your breath on my ear, most fear your teeth gently biting my earlobe, most fear the hard, fine stubble rubbing back and forth on my neck… All my intoxication will be given to you in that moment… Do whatever you want… I will give you everything you want.
Yes. I will give you everything you want.
After a moment of confusion, enchanting flowers bloomed in this cramped space, flowers destined to blossom in a larger space… Then, you swept me up in your arms, and my weight vanished. I knew this illusory body would forever float in the sky you gave me…
Your urgent, soothing, thunderous yet gentle, long yet short, warm yet icy giving, your unreasonable invasion, your profound exploration, your complete surge… How could I not embrace you? Warm you? Soothe you? Release you?
You're sweating, aren't you? In the slightly chilly November.
Your sweat clung to my hair, infinitely intimately inseparable, in the unheated room.
Your face finally pressed against mine, the slippery point of contact slowly cooling… Only then did we begin to awaken, opening our eyes… I felt you, carrying me slowly down from the top of the clouds. I saw the ceiling, the flat, four-cornered room, the bed beneath me, lying securely on the floor, and you, limp and powerless, on top of me. All of this confirmed that I hadn't stepped out of a dream. Everything, including the bedside lamp, was switched off, leaving only a faint wisp of light, undeniably proving that I was indeed here, that my soul hadn't drifted away.
I touched your short hair, my fingers enjoying grasping it, feeling its smoothness, its coolness, and its slight stiffness. Then I watched it slowly flatten or slip away, the process of going from possession to loss so beautiful and gentle, warmer than the sand slipping through my fingers—yes, a warm loss…
Many people don't know what the process of loss is, but I enjoy experiencing it this way. This is completely different from my initial feeling of being filled by you until your listless departure.
This is a detailed recollection in the darkness. If I had to tell a story, I could only say we passed each other by; you didn't want to remember me, and I didn't want to remember you. This passage has one more ending: if the room wasn't just the two of us, but had other strangers beside us, how would this drama end?!
Here is a brief outline of a story from November that has passed.

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