Pigeon

Outside, the wind was howling, the rain was pouring down, and even the row of banana trees outside were rustling.

It was raining, wasn't it? The pattering raindrops pattered against the window, making a pitter-pattering sound. I huddled on the sofa, hugging a cushion, listening to the rain, listening to the dialogue of the characters on TV, listening to the little dog snoring at my feet. My thoughts gradually transformed into wisps of smoke, then condensed into wisps of mist, drifting out the window, drifting into the starry sky, drifting towards a certain late autumn of a certain year. It was this kind of weather again, this kind of season with howling wind and pouring rain, another cool night with a continuous autumn rain. He and I, the two of us, had spent an unforgettable night together.

He was my colleague; we worked together in the human resources department. That afternoon, the weather was a bit unusual. Early in the morning, the sky was overcast with dark clouds and rumbling thunder. Soon, a light drizzle began to fall, which quickly turned into a torrential downpour. Lightning accompanied the thunder, occasionally interspersed with howls like a storm.

By evening, the rain had subsided, and the meteorological observatory changed the red rainstorm warning signal to yellow. After work, he unexpectedly invited me to a bar. It was a very romantic place, with a dimly lit atmosphere, quiet decor, elegant tables, and beautiful classic English songs. We sat on a high round stool, with a long European-style bar counter in front of us. To our right, a French black and red wooden cabinet displayed various crystal-clear wine glasses. He ordered a pitcher of "blue wine" from the waiter. We poured the wine into large glass bottles, toasted, and drank. We talked about life, art, ideals, and all sorts of things, but never about work. Then, he paid the bill and drove me home through the drizzling streets.

I don't know how that night started. I only remember that we were both drunk. His face was red, and mine was flushed too. He kept hiccuping, and so did I. He vomited, and so did I. He held my arm, and I supported him. Then we went into the room. He started kissing me, and I kissed him back. We fell onto the bed. I forgot what happened after that. I only remember that when the first rays of morning light shone into the room, he was lying naked beside me, his arm draped over my bare back. My face was buried in his strong chest. Then he woke up, staring at me in astonishment. The smell of alcohol still lingered on his breath. He cursed me, cursed himself, cursed the shopkeeper, cursed that damn beer, cursed everything he could. Then he cried, holding me. He cried like a child, so helpless, so pitiful. Afterward, I made him breakfast. We went to and from get off work together. In the days that followed, he became a regular at my house, keeping me company through countless lonely and desolate nights.

The rain intensified, the raindrops striking the glass with a crisp, loud sound. The wind howled, screeching against the windowpane. Outside, the slippery streets were bustling with traffic, a constant flow of cars. I could faintly hear the patter of tires splashing through puddles.

Suddenly, a melodious ringtone shattered the silence of the room. I jumped, about to rush to the door, when I realized it was the phone. I walked listlessly to the lampshade with its lake-blue shade, picked up the receiver—it was him.

"I'm coming right away!" he said hastily.

I glanced at the clock; it was 10:13.

"Don't come. It's getting late, and it's still raining outside!"

"Wait for me, I'll be there in ten minutes."

He hung up.

I stood there, a strange joy welling up inside me. I went to the kitchen, plugged in the power, and started brewing coffee. A cup of rich, delicious black coffee was a must-have for his visits; it was his favorite, wasn't it?

Back in the living room, the little dog stretched and yawned, then clumsily ran over and gently rubbed against my legs. I gently picked it up and buried my head in its soft, white fur. It tickled and felt so comforting. I sat down on the sofa, and it snuggled onto my lap, licking my fingers with its pink little tongue. I stroked its fur, and soon it fell fast asleep. Looking at its adorable little head, I couldn't help but smile. This was a birthday gift he gave me last year. We call it "Little Dog," and it's gotten used to it and naturally takes that as its name. Xuyao and I both adore it.

My thoughts drifted away again, back to several years ago, on Christmas Eve. There was moonlight, red candles, flowers, a sumptuous meal, and champagne he had prepared. Afterwards, we sang "Take Care Tonight" together in the room.

"The south wind kisses our faces gently, carrying the fragrance of flowers;

the south wind kisses our faces gently, the stars are sparse, the moon is hazy.

We cuddle close, our love unspoken;

we cuddle close, every word from the heart.

Regardless of tomorrow, when we must part,

let us cherish this night, let us treasure this night.

We part reluctantly, lamenting the sun's swift rise;

we part reluctantly, hoping to meet again in our dreams."

Was I a third party? He had a wife and two children. I went to the bar, took out a bottle of brandy, poured myself a glass. The strong liquor could numb me; I needed it to forget certain things.

Xu Yao has always been rational. No matter how considerate and loving I am to him, it doesn't mean he loves me. He's only into the fun of cross-dressing. He can't give up his family for me. He wants a normal family, with a woman and children. Me? I'm just a fellow cross-dresser, someone he uses to relieve his boredom when he's in the mood. To put it bluntly, I'm just someone he uses to release his lust!

But I should be content. No matter what, he still cares for me and shows concern for my well-being. What more could I ask for? Sometimes we argue and have little fights, just because of my "emotional outbursts," as he said.

"B-b-", the coffee was ready. I turned off the power, went into the bathroom, mechanically took out shaving cream, shaved my stubble, went back to my room, took out a prepared women's outfit from the wardrobe, then went to the mirror, took out a makeup box, took out a powder puff, and began to apply makeup, lipstick, eyeshadow, and lip gloss. I then used an eyebrow pencil to shape my eyebrows, looked in the mirror, and thought, "That's enough." I picked up a Chanel perfume he had given me and sprayed some on my ears and neck. He said he liked the scent, he liked seeing me dressed like this, it gave him more pleasure.

I picked up my clothes and slowly changed into my see-through lace panties, then put on black fishnet stockings. When I picked up the jade-white embroidered bra, I froze. A sense of loneliness washed over me. I stood there, forgetting to dress, forgetting who I was, just standing there, stunned, until a crisp doorbell rang and woke me up. I dropped the bra, put on a men's jacket, and opened the door.

He wasn't wet at all, except for a patch of drenched skin under his umbrella. When he saw me, he frowned.

"Why didn't you change?"

Without answering him, I closed the door, silently poured myself a cup of hot coffee, and went back to the living room. He was sitting on the sofa, his little dog fast asleep on his lap.

He took a small sip, gazing at me with a scrutinizing look, then gently asked,

"What's wrong?"

I lowered my head, my eyelids drooping, my eyelashes curling slightly upwards from being curled, avoiding his gaze, and whispered,

"Nothing, I'm not feeling well today."

He stared sharply at me, then said, with a hint of impatience and concern,

"Really? Where does it hurt? Have you seen a doctor?"

"Oh, I think I'll be fine after a rest," I said hastily. He looked at me intently, put down his teacup, walked over, sat down beside me, and gently stroked my back, saying softly,

"You were fine at work today, but you're throwing a tantrum again tonight, huh?"
He knew me too well!

"Didn't you say you weren't coming today? Why did you come in the rain? Isn't she home?" I muttered.

He placed his hand on my inner thigh, sucking on my earring, and said softly,

"Don't talk about her."

I snapped,

"Why not? Did you two have a fight?"

A look of displeasure flashed across his face. He withdrew his hand from between my legs, turned his head, and asked in a muffled voice,

"Do you really have to talk about her?"

He was angry! I immediately threw myself into his arms, my voice hoarse as I cried out,

"Oh! I know I have no right or privilege to question everything about you, but I care about you so much, I swear to God, if you can't understand that, then I'm truly doomed!"

"Why are you saying such silly things again? Anyway, I'm here now, aren't I?" Every time my "paranoia" flares up, he says I'm being silly. Yes, he's here, but his heart is with her.

He let me press against his chest, kissing my hair.

"Don't be so sensitive, Xinwei."

Okay, I won't be suspicious, sensitive, or melancholic. He's leaning against me. As long as I don't ask too many questions, overthink, or interfere, everything will be alright, won't it? Humanity, your name is contradiction!

But just then, his phone rang! Although these things are commonplace for me, I couldn't remain calm! I pushed him away.

"I think you should go back!"

He glanced at me, took his phone out of his pocket, hesitation written all over his face. He hesitated whether to answer or not. Finally, he pressed the answer button, stood up, and walked towards the kitchen. I instinctively followed, eavesdropping from the corner. I could vaguely hear a few words coming from inside, spoken in hushed tones.

"Yes, I'm out. I'll be back in a bit."

"How long? About an hour."

"Okay, I'm not angry. We'll talk when I get back."

I went out, tears welling up in my eyes. I pressed my fist to my mouth, trying to hold back my sobs. So they really had a fight. So he came in the rain just to vent. So I was so pathetic! He hid it so well!

I hurriedly wiped away my tears as he came out.

"Why are you crying?"

"No." I straightened my back instinctively.

"Come on! Let's go into the room."

Oh no! No! I don't want to! My heart was screaming, but I obediently stood up and followed him inside. As soon as we closed the door, he embraced me and kissed me, saying,

"Oh, you're so beautiful!"

What an obvious lie! I couldn't believe that a male with makeup on and dressed in men's clothing could be "beautiful." I avoided him. He didn't force me, walked over, and picked up my bra from the bed.

"Here, put it on."

As he said this, he took off my clothes and helped me put it on. Suddenly, a feeling of disgust mixed with hurt pride gripped me. I ripped off the bra strap and cried out,

"No, I don't want to wear it!"

He looked at me in alarm, and after a long pause, he uttered,

"What's wrong?"

I gasped, staring at the floor. "I told you I wasn't feeling well today, I didn't want to do it."

He stared at me intently, then sighed, pressing his body against mine, as if in resignation or urging,

"Fine, if you don't want to wear it, then don't. Come on, don't be childish, go to bed."

I stood there defiantly, not moving an inch. He grabbed me and growled,

"Come on, hurry up!"

He was in a hurry; he wanted to "get it over with quickly," wasn't he? After saying that, he took a condom from the drawer and started tearing it open as he took off his clothes. I rushed over, grabbed his hand, and angrily said,

"Didn't you hear me? I said I'm not feeling well! I don't want to do it!"

He suddenly grabbed my hand forcefully, his thick eyebrows furrowing at his forehead. His face was close to mine, his breath hot, and his tone was sarcastic,

"You're not feeling well? Do you still have your period?"

I glared at him fiercely, realizing that the person in front of me was a beast! A lustful monster with only desire and no feelings!

I forcefully shook off his hand, opened the door, and yelled, "Get out! I don't want an empty shell, I don't want a man who only has sex but no love, get out! Get out!"

He stood there, seemingly unable to believe his words had come out of his mouth. Then he gritted his teeth, nodded, and said, "Fine! Fine! You told me to get out. I'll never come back after I leave this room, don't regret it!"

"I won't regret it! What do I care about love that's empty inside? Go away!" I cried out, heartbroken.

He left dejectedly, without a word of apology.

I stood there, letting tears stream down my face, letting sorrow gnaw at my heart, letting time keep passing. Then, I went into the bathroom, took a hot bath, and washed away all the humiliation, sadness, anger, and even regret I had felt.

I knew he wouldn't come back, but what about tomorrow? Tomorrow, will I go back to him, or will he coax me back? But regardless of whether we reconcile, the issue isn't fundamentally resolved. We'll repeat the same mistakes. I'll still seek love from him, and he'll still find thrills and pleasure in cross-dressing sex with me. Sigh, I finally understand: a hopeless relationship will never be salvaged, and a heart that doesn't belong to you will never be yours no matter how much you demand it.

That night, the moon waned in the east, the night was still and quiet.

In the room, a single lamp flickered. I sat or lay on the bed, leaning against a pillow, feeling melancholy and unable to sleep. The little dog, who had come from the living room to the bedroom, was dozing on the carpet under the bed. The rain continued to drizzle, the drops pattering against the windowpane like a small stream flowing down the glass. I held a copy of *La Dame aux Camélias* in my hands, but my mind wasn't on the book. Gazing out the window, I recalled a very old-fashioned poem:

"Autumn winds blow dreams to the treetops,

pigeons build nests,

orioles are anxious,

busy and noisy,

the wind is blowing,

the rain is pouring.

Today my heart is too troubled,

I blame the red peach,

I blame the banana leaf,

I blame and blame, I blame the spring night,

the wind blows again."

The rain is pouring down again! "

Yes, he's a pigeon. Bored at home, he flies out of the greenhouse to seek mates. After a day of pleasure with the love-starved oriole, he flies back to his nest, for that is his true home, his safest place. The oriole left behind can only wait for tomorrow, for him to fly out of his nest, so they can reunite! A greedy pigeon, a pitiful oriole—a perfect metaphor.

I wrapped myself in my clothes under the covers, a sense of despondency welling up inside me. When will Xuyao and I finally be able to rest?! Until we're both old and gray, in our twilight years?

I closed the book and..." I tossed it aside. Books are just something I use to pass the time when I'm bored, but with my mind in turmoil, how could I concentrate on reading?

The rain had stopped sometime ago, leaving countless glistening droplets on the windowpane. The horizon was no longer shrouded in mist and water; a few faint streaks of starlight shone through the dark night sky. Strange, isn't it? The mysteries of nature are so wondrous; none of us can predict when it will come or when it will go, just like life itself.

Outside, the wind and rain have ceased, leaving only distant dreams, fleeting figures.

The rainy season brought pigeons, and it took pigeons away.

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