Part Two

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It's past midnight. This afternoon, we had a six-hour meeting. Even though I was sitting the whole time, I'm exhausted. The saying "There are so many Chinese people" has been proven true once again today.
My first love—wow, it's been 30 years already! I was 15, in the second year of junior high. Every day I'd carelessly ride my bike to school, my schoolbag tucked into the back seat. When I got home, I discovered it was missing, and a female classmate brought it to me the next day. Let me reiterate, I'm not a novelist or a storyteller; my writing skills don't give me that kind of talent.
After meeting this girl, we often passed notes and wrote letters—a practice that's long gone (I miss it). We quickly became a couple, but our relationship was limited to walking home together after school; holding hands was considered quite audacious.
She went to a vocational school after graduation, while I stayed in town for high school. She came back for the Spring Festival. It was the Lantern Festival, and the government organized a fireworks display by the lake in my city. Yes, back then, fireworks weren't banned, and the government would organize large-scale fireworks displays. After looking around for a while, we went to an unfinished building. To give you a brief explanation, back then, buildings didn't have garages, let alone basements; the ground floor was used for a row of storage rooms. Yes, we kissed passionately in that cold storage room, my icy hands slipping inside her layers of underwear. I was nervous, my breathing rapid. She, on the other hand, was calm. Although she was also aroused, as the passion deepened and she continued to tease me, young hormones surged like a flood. She kept whispering in my ear, "Try it, try it!" Those three words had echoed in my ears for decades. I said, "No, I'll get pregnant." She said, "It's okay, try it, try it!"
The bowstring was drawn, ready to be drawn. And so, we stood there in the cold little room. I was wearing long underwear underneath, then thermal underwear over that, and over that, pants I'd just bought for the New Year. It took a lot of effort to finally get my penis out. I say "got out" because I couldn't even completely pull down my pants—it was so cold, so incredibly cold! She had nothing to pull out, but she was about the same level as me, only her pubic hair showing.
Of course, if it were now, there would be at least five or more ways to easily penetrate, but a 16-year-old boy's sexual experience came solely from a pornographic book called "Eighteen Techniques for a Slut." So, sorry everyone, we failed. There was no penetration, no sweaty, exhilarating feeling, no effortless mastery of various techniques. When we realized nothing worked, we gave up. In the end, I rode my bicycle to take her home, and then went home myself. But I've never forgotten that scene in the storage room.
One summer afternoon last year, I had just parked my bike in front of the Bank of China when a car behind me kept honking. I recognized her when she got out; I estimated her weight was close to 170 pounds. Her personality was still as cheerful as ever.

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Part Two

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