[Three days and three nights]

Time is countable from the beginning, like a few rolling beans, always with a sense of panic about not being able to grasp it, something you have to hold tight, touch, count, cherish while being forced to discard.

Time is also a rope with a visible beginning and end, only three days long. Holding this rope in your hand, it slides down little by little, little by little you want to hold on but can't.

You stood at the exit in your cotton coat, blocking half of the exit that was more than two people wide. My gaze involuntarily turned from the periphery of the crowd to look at you.

The male sunflower's head opened in the night, or as if it hadn't received sunlight, it lost its vitality. I remembered in the video you playing with your hair and saying: "I'm all washed up and waiting for you to come." You, this plump and crystal-clear fruit, exuded an alluring fragrance, waiting for a sweet bite.

Seeing you, you smiled slightly unfamiliarly. You were so nervous that you didn't even think to help me with my luggage. We tried to follow each other to the parking lot. To show that we knew each other, I said: "Harbin isn't very cold."

You smiled. Your shy eyes didn't dare to look at me.

The cold air of Harbin is first felt through the nostrils; with each breath, the nasal hairs seem to freeze and rub hard against the inner walls. Then, I see the frost patterns on the car window, crystal clear, evoking the warm shadows of childhood.

I reach out a finger and melt a corner of those frost patterns, like tears, flowing in a clear line.

I don't know what to say to you. Looking at you from behind, your hair is adorably messy.

I wonder if I can reach out and touch your hair, or run my fingers through your soft strands, quietly.

We were both quiet people, both people who used quietness to mask ourselves.

After a long while, you turn around, look at me, smile, and extend your fist, a tightly clenched fist, which you offer to me—I reach out to take it—three shiny little chestnuts, rolling into my palm.

A smile.

I remember during the break in taking photos last time, you told me to close my eyes, open my mouth, and then, my mouth was filled with sweet, peeled chestnuts you had prepared, chestnuts that could be eaten for lunch, chestnuts that warmly filled my stomach.

Clutching these three chestnuts in my hand, I feel your warmth gradually fading.

I think you meant well. These three chestnuts are more wonderful to me than anything else.

Words fail me; it's as if speaking would disrupt the quiet atmosphere.

I texted you: "Your hair is so cute, all messy."

Haha, I meant I really wanted to stroke it.

Soon, you replied: "Texting at such close range feels like having an affair."

Haha, what a wonderful affair.

I replied: "It would be best if I could steal you away."

Harbin isn't very big; we soon arrived at Central Street, soon at the place where you used to wander. I got off the train and took a deep breath.

The feeling of hunger was dulled; the physical strength of my body was almost gone under the pressure of my emotions.

We didn't even discuss lunch; we just sat there in the room.

Time and space shifted too quickly. Two hours ago, I was at the airport, kissing my husband goodbye, the faint kiss mark still lingering on my lips.

The tears that streamed from the corners of my eyes as I turned away—this love is like the sea, I'm being pushed up and swept away by its waves, pushed up and swept away.

The blue sea, the small, white waves, lapped against my body like gentle whips, seemingly without end. I don't know if he'll sit in front of the computer in a daze after I've been away for a few days, if he'll lose his appetite, if he'll toss and turn alone in the empty bed at night, if he'll pick up his phone and then put it down again.

I turned on the computer and told him urgently and shyly that I had arrived, and the first thing to do was have lunch.

He comforted me and said he wouldn't bother me.

Lunch was the boiled fish you ordered.

In this room, we sat by the window.

I remember you didn't like eating out, you didn't like the cold feeling of restaurants.

Boiled fish, this food that embodies so many disappointments, was warmed and made spicy again by you, who knew nothing of it.

Facing you, each with a small bowl of rice and a small dish of seaweed.

I ate half a bowl, and gave you half.

I watched you eat until not a single grain of rice was left.

We bit into those bright red dried chilies together; it turns out you can handle spicier food than I can.

Is this a way to get closer?

Shall we start?

You asked.

I'm a little sleepy, really sleepy. I got up at six in the morning to catch my flight, tossing and turning all night.

So I asked you: Can we rest for the afternoon, starting tomorrow ?

You said: Sure, I won't film well if I'm not in the right state of mind.

Then you said: So you rest, and I'll

go downstairs? Tilting my head, I asked: Do you really have to go downstairs?

You smiled, looking at me: Then I'll lie down here and take a nap.

You said you only slept two or three hours last night, always worried about waking up late and not being able to pick me up.

Two beds.

Your side, mine side.

Air flowing freely in the middle.

We lay down and chatted.

I asked you: Can you tell me your story?

You said: I can't get into the mood like this.

What is the mood?

Hehe, I glanced at you sideways, then jumped up.

I climbed onto your bed, lay down next to you, rested my head on your arm, my left hand lying obediently against my body, and my right hand began to actually stroke your beard.

I said, "Is this alright?

Turn to your side and hug me."

You started telling stories, your stories always jumping around; before I could even hear one part clearly, you were already on the next.

Gradually, I found your beard more amusing than the stories.

On the way here, at 30,000 feet in the air, in my endless daydreams about you, I wrote a warm piece about your beard. Yes, I wrote this: The warmest thing is lying beside him, combing his beard with my fingers, and when I'm being playful, braiding it into flower petals—three, four, five, whatever. He would surely say to me with a happy smile, "Child," and I've also imagined his beard gently rubbing against my neck and chest, caressing me, as soft as feathers, as rough as reeds, slightly itchy, slightly painful, slightly numbing.

At this moment, I truly lie beside you like this, stroking your beard—this curly, graying, wild, long beard, like a clump of grass standing on my chin, full of masculinity. But I'm a little afraid to touch your beard, afraid to be mischievous; I just stroke it quietly. And then I listen to your stories.

It gets a little warm when we hug each other.

You took off your coat, leaving only a close-fitting black T-shirt. The hair on your arms was thick, and I was surprised and began to stroke it. You rolled up your trousers to show me your legs—lush and verdant, like an unknown forest, each hair standing upright or curling. They felt very textured to the touch.

Suddenly, I remembered the chapter from *White Deer Plain* you showed me, and how you told me you were a treasure.

It turns out, from the moment I saw you, I longed for you, no matter how reserved I was, how I tried to change the subject, how naively I lay in your arms playing with your beard, how innocently I lamented your past.

I've forgotten when we stopped talking, and I've forgotten when we started exploring each other.

I only remember that a few days ago in Harbin, you had already aroused me. Seeing you was like a vine, clinging to me, unwilling to let go.

Although, while showering, I still felt shy, dressing neatly as I entered the bathroom and came out neatly dressed.

Your face was delicate, a delicate beauty hidden among the thick patch of hair.

I gaze at you, and can't help but lick your thick lower lip with the tip of my tongue. Licking is gentle, but not enough, so I switch to biting with my teeth, a play of gentleness and sharpness. My hands feel that embracing isn't deep enough; exploration and kneading are a kind of suppressed release.

I play between your lips and teeth, the warm saliva turning icy, the hard touch of your teeth seemingly sparking.

In an instant, my tongue is sucked into your mouth, like a child, we greedily suck and lick, our demands so urgent. Fingers run through your hair, and tongue and teeth begin an intimate chase in the room. Desire is like hunger; we become each other's delicious food. The saliva in our mouths has been consumed too quickly. Often, our tongues simply entwine intimately like in a fight, our breaths heavy from our nostrils, the room quiet except for the sounds of our breaths and tongues churning, carrying the fresh juices.

My hands, like tentacles, explore, caress, knead, and finally, tightly embrace you.

These arms, thick-knuckled, thickly haired, and as hard as iron, restrained me, embraced me, welcomed me, and rejected me

. I began to tenderly leave the passionate kiss that had lasted for who knows how long, and quietly pressed my face against your chest, calming myself, calming my body, calming the overwhelming, premature, and intense desire that had invaded my body. I pressed myself close to you, listening to your heartbeat. I felt the power of a beast hidden beneath your breath, and I was calming that beast, even if this calm concealed an even more violent eruption.

Sometimes, clothes are not merely for covering the body, but a symbol of love's courageous advance.

Each torn piece of fabric is a step forward, an opening for desire.

Your body is unfamiliar to me, but your breath is already familiar, reaching deep into my heart, like a burgeoning, vibrant green plant.

My body is like a flower now, blooming under your influence, delicate and dewy, moist as morning dew,

unfolding.

My lips are slightly parted, parted to better absorb your tenderness and passionate kiss;

my arms are outstretched, outstretched to hold you tighter, to feel the real embrace;

my legs are tightly closed, a half-open door, a mist before it opens, this slight opening only anticipates the moment you burst in with fury!

I close my eyes, nervously concealing my inner turmoil. I think this is more in line with the natural rhythm of time; we've only known each other for less than two hours! I can't do what I imagined: a brave and passionate embrace upon meeting you, then cuddling in your arms on the way, a frenzied kiss in the room, then clothes scattered on the floor, then a passionate lovemaking session in bed. We both still have some restraint, some hesitation, some desire to control the pace.

I close my eyes, concealing my feelings, and use conversation to dilute the passion.

Let's continue. Recounting your youthful years, the women who passed by your side, the scent of jasmine begins to fill the air, chrysanthemums begin to bloom in clusters, the gauze-like curtains begin to be drawn back, desire returns, control is broken.

Passionate kisses become impatient, we tear at each other, losing patience, panting, we are instantly naked, our limbs intertwining without restraint.

Your beard, like a brush, brushes against my body, stroke after stroke, a slight shiver of oxygen wherever it touches, my body responding to you, rising and falling restlessly…

It was a long moment without day or night, your eyes sometimes scorching my heart like the blazing sun, sometimes pouring coolly on my soul like moonlight, and so, one after another, I drifted off to sleep in your alternation of day and night, utterly exhausted.

Breakfast was at three in the afternoon.

In your photography studio, each of us had a glass of milk, a few slices of bread, and even some spicy duck necks.

Seeing your assistant set out breakfast, I think my face flushed instantly, unable to look at her.

After the assistant left, we ate breakfast together, smiling at each other without saying a word.

I used your computer to go online and talk to my loved one, while you nibbled my earlobe beside me. I did

my makeup.

You put a warm chestnut in my mouth again and sat beside me watching. Occasionally, you would correct the makeup artist's hairstyle design.

I dared not open my mouth, gently chewing the sweet chestnut, letting layers of powder conceal my happy smile.

Behind my long eyelashes, my gaze always followed you.

We took more photos. Slightly different from a few days ago.

Our bodies were too familiar, allowing no room for ambiguity.

Only occasionally, your fingers would flick my nipple, or you would gently put your arm around my waist, letting me lean against you. The lighting
was perfect, like a stage play, with you and me performing silently, without an audience.

I let you do as you pleased, genuinely enjoying you finding beautiful angles to look at me, to record me.

Time flew by, and amidst the flashes of the cameras, it was nine o'clock at night.

I didn't want to eat, so I went with you to the bar upstairs.

In the bar, your friends were drinking and chatting. A Russian beauty and her boyfriend were kissing passionately, oblivious to everyone else. Fast-paced music filled the air, the lighting was dim, and the walls were stained with images of beautiful women and sex. You and I sat facing each other, two non-drinkers, each holding a beer bottle, necks touching, taking large gulps. It wasn't a gentle, sweet atmosphere, but rather a kind of unrestrained, extravagant indulgence. Looking at you with half-closed eyes, it was like seeing peach blossoms everywhere. My face flushed, our eyes locked, unwilling to look away for a moment. Finally, we licked our lips, quickly finished our drinks, and took hands, heading straight to the hotel.

That night seemed repetitive, yet each time it was a passionate, unrestrained experience. Countless times, shallow sleep punctuated those nights.

Your features, so delicate, were hidden within a seemingly rugged exterior, evoking a sense of tenderness.

You spoke of your daughter, your marriage, the hardships and perseverance of your life.

This was a collision of souls in the night after a physical entanglement.

I gently kiss your cheek, and stroke your soft beard with my left hand.

I wonder, if I had met you in my past, would I have showered you with tenderness and comfort?

Perhaps such a scenario wouldn't be necessary. Our acquaintance was merely a point where our paths intersected, and then we drifted further and further apart?

The man in my arms, sometimes fierce, sometimes delicate, simply happened to be nestled in my embrace this night.

Yet, I still wish to hold you, listen to you, and bless you.

Or, at this moment, to love you.

Never before have I had such ample, undisturbed time to have a man, to chat and make love with him at a leisurely pace. Deepening the physical sensations from the depths of our souls. Time is divided into segments; when awake, we make love, whispering sweet nothings; when asleep, we drift into sweet dreams, so entwined.

It's three in the afternoon again.
Our "breakfast" is made by you: a large pot of spicy stew, a vegetable dish, and a bowl of rice for each of us.

This meal is eaten with your assistants, all young women. They chat, and I eat quietly, though you smile at me from time to time.

This man can cook; I don't know whether it makes me feel happy or pitied.

Your work is captivating—focused eyes, open mind, and a perfect balance of intimacy and distance—it makes me melancholic and makes me laugh heartily.

You're a man of few words, as if you know I dislike talkative men.

The afternoon's shoot went smoothly and peacefully.

Friends came over for dinner, and we ate together. Afterwards, you took me to see a "two-person comedy" performance… The "two-person comedy" made me feel very stifled, an indescribable sense of oppression. So we went to a bar, I think it was called Lucia, a very elegant environment, and we had coffee together.

That night, we were still entangled, because I was leaving the next day, and we became even more frantic with our desires.

We squeezed onto one bed, and I probably held you tightly the whole time. I

knew in my heart that this wasn't love, just an infatuation, and that infatuation would eventually fade to the point of being forgotten. But I loved the three chestnuts you gave me, the way you shyly handed them to me, not daring to look at me.

We didn't sleep that night. At five in the morning, you said you'd sleep for half an hour and then take me to the airport. I just watched you sleep, then quietly got up to wash, packed my clothes, left a note by your bedside, and took the note you'd written to me with me. I watched you from afar, kissing you a thousand times in my heart, before leaving.

Harbin was still quite cold that day.

In this beautiful city, my beautiful story was still asleep, but I had already left.

These three days and three nights were like a plump lychee, its bright red, hard shell filled with soft, juicy, and sweet memories.

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[Three days and three nights]

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