Chapter 3 third chapter

The last time, you also walked out in a cold rain. That day, I didn't call a taxi, so you ran out of the hotel in a hurry.Every time you come and go, you are in such a hurry, just like you can never find your own more than ten square meters on this small planet, so that you can place your body and your soul. You said that you are used to going through the wind and rain, and you said you are not afraid.You said that you often need to walk in the man-made torrential rain when filming. It seems that only this old film language can express a woman's loneliness, frustration and helplessness.

You also said that you don't need to have a process of getting into character at all before shooting. "I don't know if I'm playing the movie or the movie is playing me." Your sigh is like a piece of gauze, which can easily cover the wound.I stared at you while you were talking, and I was also thinking: "I don't know if I'm writing a novel or the novel is writing about me." The tryst between the two of us always reminded me of how many years ago I sneaked to the threshing ground of the labor reform team to snuggle with the fire for a while in the hut of the watching field.To look silently at a flesh-colored fire and throw all existence and one's own into the fire.Through the skin of the rice, my nose can smell the aroma of rice.But when the chapped hands warmed a little, they had to pick up the fork again in the cold wind like a knife.In temporary comfort there is an ever-insurmountable boredom.So you finally go.you left.

Your stubbornness is not something I can dissuade, just as your loneliness and frustration are not something I can help you.Later, you wrote that you had a cold, your throat was swollen, and you had gingivitis.You said that you took penicillin because of me, the price you paid for our temporary happiness.I read the letter and turned it over to look at the back of the paper. The back of the paper is blank. But I can still see that day in the bathroom, the bathrobe took away all your body temperature, like a living but incorporeal person hanging ghostly behind the door and watching you and me.My cold fingers slide over your cold back.Everything was going up and up like steam in a tub; we were going down and down like cuddling in a runaway elevator.I take your hand and kiss it finger by finger.You laughed, you said it looked like a scene from a novel I wrote.Yes, the scene is the same, but the characters have changed.I heard a rooster crowing in a remote deserted village, and through the thick fog of time, the crowing sound was muddy.I hold you tighter, wanting to hold the past back.But you turned me around and forced me to look in the mirror.The mirror, that's what I hate most, I don't want to see it any more than I don't want to see myself.But then I saw it everywhere in Paris, and I couldn't avoid it any more than I could avoid myself.So I wrote so many words.

At that time, there was only a blurred flesh-colored figure on the mirror, which made neither of us feel shy.You tremble like rain in my fingers.Your trembling made me think that the two of us were but two overlapping blisters from the cold rain.We can't be separated, and we can't be made into one - if you break, I will break too! You look at me.You measure from the top of your head to my neck with the palm of your hand.You said this is your "line" and you want me to remember it forever.And I thought I had your rope around my neck from then on.Yes, I did think then that your rope would be around my neck forever.But when Natalie accompanied me to a shop next to the Louvre to buy clothes, your "line" became just a marker of your height.

God!You know, I didn't call a taxi that day, and when you ran to the bus stop in the rain, I stood by the window and watched your back running into the rain.On the dark gray concrete driveway, among the soggy clumps of roses, your little bare heels splashed with water.And that little bare heel, surrounded by a semicircle of sandal laces, shone and danced in the dense, shiny raindrops, creating a blind spot on my pupils ever since.Yes, I did think at the time that this blind spot would never go away. And then you wrote to say you were sick. I looked at the white paper on the back of the letter.