If only life were as beautiful as our first meeting – A trip to Hangzhou and Shanghai

One afternoon in November, the sun wasn't particularly bright, but it was gentle. This is the difference between the South and the North. Northern winters are harsh, like a stern parent who'll punish you if you misbehave. Southern winters, on the other hand, are like a quiet woman; even in the cold, there's a touch of allure.
A brand new Audi Q7 and a beautiful young woman were there to pick us up at the airport. She was probably a friend's secretary. Southerners have picked up these habits too, though in the North, it's mostly Audi A6s, while in the South, it's X5s or Q7s.
We checked into an extremely luxurious hotel. Apparently, this was the only room in the entire building. It felt empty inside. I actually prefer small, cozy rooms; I don't sleep well in such a large, empty room.
Hangzhou is beautiful—the water is beautiful, the people are beautiful, and their beauty has a touch of gentle elegance. Shanghai is also beautiful, its sophistication radiating subtle yet powerful fashion.
Life is monotonous. Business dealings, meals, and karaoke seem to be the same old routine. I ate a few bites of food quickly and then went to a karaoke bar. The evening news had just started, which is unusual for me; I usually go to karaoke bars after 10 pm. Everyone ordered a girl. I randomly picked one; it was a short time anyway, so it didn't matter if she was good or bad. Only one friend from Northeast China didn't seem to like any of the girls he called, even after three rounds of hailing. He seemed very picky.
We drank, sang, played dice, and occasionally shouted out some business matters. The atmosphere was lively. I carefully observed the woman next to me. She was more open than the other girls, readily hugging and getting close without any restraint, very naturally, like lovers in the throes of passion. Or maybe that's what you call professionalism.
She was a girl born in the late 80s or early 90s, from a beautiful little mountain village in China. Her skin was delicate and supple, her figure slender and delicate, yet her chin was resolute, incongruous with her temperament. She made no secret of her materialistic desires and firmly believed that there was no love in the world. She skillfully dealt with my casual conversation, which was just a series of questions and answers for me, but for her, every answer seemed like a pre-prepared response. As
the alcohol level rose, people became more excited. In the restroom, I kissed her. Girls in this profession seem to do anything, except kiss. I don't know if it's an unwritten rule, but she neither refused nor responded enthusiastically.
After the party ended, my friend said a few words to her, and she took my hand and left the brightly lit place for an even more lively one. It was late, but the place was bustling with people, mostly young men and women who were almost too young to look at directly. They were fashionable, glamorous, and unconventional, and the music was either Lady Gaga or other contemporary songs. I suddenly felt old; my expensive suit seemed so out of place.
She asked me for money to buy cigarettes and alcohol, and then gave me the change back. I liked that feeling—taking what I wanted without hesitation. In the business world, there's too much deceit and treachery; this simple and direct approach felt like a long-lost memory. Boys would often try to get close to her, and she would run over and loudly call out to me, "Husband, husband..." Is this a case of love turning left or love calling for transfer? The girl played by Huang Shengyi in that movie—yes, that's the feeling. An out-of-place older man and a vibrant young woman arrive at a dance hall.
Then they go to a small, cramped 24-hour restaurant, simple and basic, with a uniquely flavorful dish. She kept piling food onto my plate, but I couldn't eat a thing. I despised my own hypocrisy, hated my own pretense, as if I couldn't eat unless in an elegant restaurant—that's called being pretentious.
Afterwards, we went to her rented apartment. I asked her to come to my hotel, but she refused, saying she wanted me to see her place. Hmm. The place was a complete mess, clothes and food were strewn everywhere, there was barely any room to step. I didn't know whether to stand or sit, and in fact, it was difficult to sit down, because the only place to sit in the room was the bed. I felt a little awkward, and I even found it ridiculous that I was so reserved in front of a girl in her early twenties. It was probably because of the environment. That night, I was practically led by the nose by her, to the karaoke bar where she worked, to the disco she liked, to eat the food she liked, and to her room.
I lost myself, I couldn't find any emotional support, and suddenly I became shy.
She was different from every girl I knew. They all had their own considerations, their own purposes, which was why they ate together, dated, or even kept their distance. But she was different, so very different. She was naked, passionate, and sincere. She took what she wanted and refused what she didn't want. She was clean, simple, like an angel, radiating boundless light.
We chatted, drank, watched TV, talked about everything. When we were happy, we laughed out loud; when we were unhappy, we hugged.
The moonlight, like water, spilled onto the windowpane. Perhaps at this moment, only the moon was watching us: a worldly-wise old man and a naive young girl. She helped him remove his inner armor, revealing his wounded self—some wounds healed, others still bleeding. Suddenly, he fell silent, unsure what to say. She stared directly at me, her large, bright eyes catching my eye. I wanted to cry, but I only smiled.
How much she resembled myself years ago, a group of carefree friends, waking up in the afternoon and sleeping in the morning, drinking and dancing day and night. Our身影 could be seen in every corner of the city. Slowly, I grew up, becoming a seemingly successful man, my career thriving, my friends praising me. But all of this remained forever a distance away. Within this distance, no one, not even myself, understood me, nor did I know myself.
What was in my heart? What did I think? What did I want? Was it really career? Money? Status? Suddenly, I understood Sanmao's wandering. I understood the various releases of human nature, releases for which even the person releasing themselves didn't know why, or where they would lead.
Perhaps I've fallen for this girl, or perhaps I've fallen for her purity, or perhaps I've fallen for my former self. Amidst the vast earth, a young man in white, with just a sigh, cast a melancholy shadow over the entire city. In this busyness where one neglects their soul, I suddenly found myself. Though she was beside me, I still missed her, a girl from a karaoke bar. I turned away, secretly shedding tears. She hugged me from behind, as if it were youth, dreams, and love itself, and bit me deeply on the back. She'll never know what an old man like me was thinking that night. She was just working.
Dawn broke. I quickly got up, kissed her forehead, and disappeared into the morning mist.
Twenty minutes later, I lay on the comfortable bed in the hotel. Yes, everything was fine. Two hours later, those two Q7s, that beautiful girl, would still come to pick me up and take me to the airport.
Yes, everything was fine.
Now, I'm in my office, this place that gives me both glory and humiliation. The lights are off, the room is dark, and the traffic is bustling downstairs. I've lit a cigar, and she's the only one with light on, lost in thought, unsure of what to write. There was no affection, no sex, or perhaps there's always an emotion that transcends. That night, we didn't even feel any impulse. Or rather, I felt no impulse.
For the first time ever, I gave her my phone number, and she gave me her QQ number. I didn't add her; I couldn't imagine it. Everyone has a little rabbit inside them, and mine was almost jumping out. Should I let it go back or let it leap out?
I've fallen in love, fallen in love with this feeling. She is me, the me from years ago. She showed me myself, the me of the past, the real me. She's not my type, yet I'm thinking of her now. I'm not thinking of her, I'm thinking of myself, the me from years ago.
I've fallen in love with myself.

URL 1:https://www.sexlove5.com/htmlBlog/98979.html

URL 2:/Blog.aspx?id=98979&aspx=1

Previous Page : My Beloved Wife's Love History (Part 1)

Next Page : First time having an affair

增加

comment Open a new window to view comments

Contact Information

If only life were as beautiful as our first meeting – A trip to Hangzhou and Shanghai

comment Open a new window to view comments