Under The Sunset, She Kissed Me. - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

When I cry, I love to lower my head—mostly because I don’t want others to find out. Since being with Miss Y, every time I am moved to tears or simply miss her, I let them fall. Miss Y always cups my face, and while the tears are still hanging on my cheeks, on the verge of falling, I hear her call me a “little spoiled brat.” She doesn’t even wipe my tears away; she just holds my face. As soon as she gets close, I don’t want to cry anymore, but with the tears still on my face, it looks ridiculous. So, I purposely rub them off on her clothes, bury my face in her shoulder, and speak in a muffled, listless voice.

Even though I’m a freelancer, to spend more time with Miss Y, I aligned my schedule with hers. We follow the rhythm of “resting at sunset and working at sunrise,” just like an old married couple—and in truth, we are. We confessed our feelings the summer after middle school, endured three years of high school, four years of long-distance during college, a year and a half of long-distance after graduation, and now, eight years of living together. Waking up with you by my side—this life is enough.

Once, Miss Y and I watched a play in Kunhe. It was quite moving; in the end, the male lead died, and the female lead lived on, carrying out his final wishes. After we left the theater, Miss Y asked me what I thought of the male lead. I said, “He was quite handsome, but he died too early.”

“And you?”

“Ruru, if you died, I absolutely wouldn’t live on alone.”

“Stop, stop, stop! Who told you to say things like that? Spit it out, quickly!”

“I’m serious. If you were gone, I could never go on. Even if you had final wishes, I couldn’t bear it. So, let’s both live well and stay safe until we’re 100, okay?”

“And you called me cheesy? You’re the cheesiest one, Miss Y.”

Neither of us are fans of celebrities, but we love “two-dimensional” culture (anime/manga). There are many comic-cons in Kunhe, and whenever we have time, we go to hang out. Sometimes we even cosplay. Seeing the young people at the conventions makes me feel full of youthful energy. Although we are exhausted when we get home at night, we are both incredibly happy.

There are other lesbians around us, but no one suspects Miss Y and me. Firstly, neither of us likes to actively talk about our partner. Secondly, we aren’t very intimate in public, so few people know we are a couple; they just think we are a pair of close friends living together. Once, I went to Miss Y’s office at night to deliver some documents. The moon was bright, the atmosphere was just right, and we found a secluded spot to steal a kiss. We didn’t notice someone was smoking there. A soda can dropped to the ground with a clatter, startling us. We turned to see it was one of Miss Y’s colleagues. The three of us stared at each other, so embarrassed—caught kissing. Colleague A was very tactful, saying, “It’s so dark, I can’t see anything at all,” and walked past with her eyes closed. I faced Miss Y, and she asked me, “Should we continue?” I… I was so embarrassed.

My nickname for Miss Y on WeChat is “Angel.” When she saw my phone, she asked why. I asked if she had heard a song called “Angel,” because I love the lyrics:

“Angel, my angel, you make me smile, I’d do anything for you, I can give you a home. My angel, my angel, you make me smile, I’d do anything for you, I can give you a home. You are my angel, you let the sad me smile. No matter what anyone says, you, you, melted my heart. I love you.”

For two women living together, a problem that’s hard to solve is hair. We both have long hair—Miss Y’s reaches her waist, mine to my shoulders. Every week when we clean, we wonder: “Why is hair everywhere except on our heads?” Perhaps hair, too, loves freedom.

It’s hard to get train tickets for the Chinese New Year, so it’s been a long time since I’ve gone home with Miss Y for the holidays. During the years we couldn’t get tickets, we stayed home to prepare New Year’s goods and fried meat together. We don’t have relatives here in Kunhe, and our close friends all went home. Every New Year is just the two of us. She fries the meat, I make the fillings, and at night, we watch the Spring Festival Gala while wrapping dumplings. After calling our families, we sit on the sofa, leaning heads against each other. The living room is warm with the air conditioning on, but Miss Y still pulls out a thin blanket to cover us. Outside the window are the sounds of fireworks and firecrackers; inside is the heartbeat of my lover. Our wish every year is simply: May we be together, year after year, just like this morning.

Once, Miss Y made a mistake and deleted a file I’d been working on for a long time. She thought it was important and assumed I would be angry, so she tried everything to fix it. I actually wasn’t angry—the file had already been sent—but I enjoyed the process of Miss Y coaxing me. She kept at it, using that stunning face of hers to say all sorts of sweet things, kissing me and saying:

“I’m sorry, it was my fault. I love Ruru-baby the most. I like Ruru-baby the most. Ruru-baby is my heaven and my earth, the best in the world. Please don’t be mad at this clumsy Miss Y.”

She kept kissing me as she spoke. After a long time, seeing I still hadn’t said a word, she thought she had caused a huge disaster and went quiet. I heard her go quiet, so I looked up. She was sitting there, shedding tears in grievance. At that moment, her 169cm frame looked so fragile. I asked her why she stopped talking. Miss Y said she was just an idiot, couldn’t do anything right, and that after failing at her own work, she had messed up Ruru-baby’s work too.

Seeing her cry, I couldn’t keep up the act anymore. I rushed to comfort her, saying, “No, no, the file was already sent! I was just enjoying you being all clingy and coaxing me, that’s why I stayed silent.” Miss Y looked up and asked if I was telling the truth, warning me not to lie. I said, “Really! If you don’t believe me, look at the chat history, I already sent it to the boss.” Miss Y punched me lightly, asking why I was so mean, letting her think she’d done something terrible and fearing she’d affected my job. Ah, such a cute, adorable Miss Y.

I flipped through our photo album and found a selfie of Miss Y from the time we were separated after graduation. She looked so haggard; her eyes lacked their usual spark, replaced by a sense of world-weariness and sadness. Her hair was just tied back in a simple low ponytail, her lips were chapped, and she was wearing black, which easily hid dust. She had lost so much weight. I started reflecting on why I had given her such a hard time back then. If only I had stayed in Kunhe with her. Miss Y was all alone, without anyone she knew, her roommates had all gone home, and she was left there like a lonely island waiting for a lighthouse to shine. Looking at the photo, tears started falling before I knew it. I wiped them away, but my heart wouldn’t settle. I couldn’t bear to think about how a girl like her had to find work and rent an apartment all by herself. I know Miss Y is a resilient girl, but thinking about it still makes my heart ache. Isn’t the deepest state of love just… aching for her?

Miss Y and I both love “glutinous” (chewy) foods. On Sunday mornings, we rarely have to wake up early, so we stay in bed until ten. Looking through the fridge, we found some rice cakes we’d bought earlier. We made a pot of red bean and rice cake soup, garnished with a bit of sweet osmanthus. The soft red beans, the chewy rice cakes, the fragrant osmanthus—outside, the breeze chased the leaves, and inside, it was warm and cozy. Looking at the still-drowsy Miss Y holding a small spoon, I felt a sense of peaceful, flowing time. I let out a low, happy laugh, and when she asked what I was laughing at, I said, “I’m just so happy.”

Miss Y is in the “put cilantro on everything” camp; I am in the “strip every piece of cilantro away” camp. Every time we eat out, we argue about cilantro. Miss Y thinks it’s the most beautiful food in the world and can’t understand why anyone would dislike it; I think it’s the most evil food and can’t understand why anyone would like it.

Once, we went out for beef noodles. I went to buy drinks and let Miss Y order. When I returned to the shop, I saw her quietly playing on her phone and teased her:

“Hey there, miss, all alone? Can I have your WeChat ID?”

Miss Y caught the playfulness and replied, “No way, I’m waiting for my lover.”

I said, “Then can I be your second lover?”

Miss Y thought for a moment and said, “Fine, I guess.”

Hahaha, as we were still acting, the beef noodles arrived. I looked at our bowls and said:

“I thought you would have ordered cilantro for my noodles.”

Miss Y replied, “Am I that evil in your heart?”

I said, “Well, you never know.”

“Alright then, after we finish eating, you aren’t allowed to kiss me for the whole afternoon.”

“Oh no, don’t say that! How could the kindest, most wonderful Miss Y add cilantro to my beef noodles? It was me being petty—please forgive me!”

Miss Y looked at me and said, “Fine, I’ll forgive you just this once.”

Thank you, my kind Miss Y.

In the afternoon, lacking inspiration for my writing, I took the bus out for a stroll. I passed a cake shop and saw a blue puppy cake. Thinking Miss Y would like it, I bought it. The shop owner said it needed to be made to order and might take a long time, asking if I still wanted it. I said yes. I waited at the shop for three hours; it was bright when I went in, and dark when I left. The bus was packed, and afraid of crushing the cake, I took a taxi home. I hadn’t found any inspiration all afternoon, but I brought back a cake. When I got home, Miss Y was already there. She asked where I’d been and, seeing the cake in my hand, wondered if it was some special occasion. I saw her confusion and said, “I just wanted to eat cake.” Miss Y called me a “little glutton.” We made a simple tomato and egg stir-fry and sour-and-spicy shredded potatoes for dinner. After eating, we lit candles, wore little party hats, and blew them out. I asked, “Miss Y, what was your wish?”

Miss Y said, “I hope I don’t get fat after eating this.”

She asked what I wished for, and I said, “I hope to have Miss Y by my side every single day.”

Trying to be trendy, we decided to film a dance challenge, but after an hour of trying, we looked like two zombies and decided to give up on becoming internet-famous.

I bought Miss Y a sweater. Even though I know my taste is terrible, I always gamble on that one-in-ten-thousand chance of having good style. When I took out that red-and-white striped sweater, Miss Y looked at me and laughed out of anger, asking if I had ever seen human clothing or had any sense of aesthetics. Although she teased me, she still wore it to work the next day. At noon, she messaged me, saying her colleagues all thought Christmas had come early and were coming over to see what Santa Claus looked like. She said she’d never wear clothes I bought her out again—it was too embarrassing.

It was a Saturday, no work. We planned to go out for xiaolongbao (soup dumplings). Seeing how beautiful Miss Y looked even with a messy ponytail, I thought about how stunning she would be if I styled her hair. After eating, we went home, and I pulled her to the vanity. I took out some small hair ties I’d bought ages ago and followed a tutorial to give her a “flower bun” hairstyle. Miss Y sat honestly in the chair, and even when I accidentally tugged her hair, she only gave a tiny “hiss.” After a long time, I finally finished. Seeing such a gentle, wifely Miss Y, I couldn’t help but lean in and kiss her. She always smells so good; every time I get close, I want to kiss her. She never refuses me, accepting my kisses faintly. Looking at this “wife-like” Miss Y, I simply can’t help but fall for her.

We have many of the same clothes, and because we are about the same height, we sometimes wear the wrong ones. I remember once, Miss Y was in a rush for work and accidentally wore my jacket. When she got home that night, I asked if she felt anything was wrong. Miss Y said, “Did Ruru-baby look exceptionally beautiful today?” I said, “No, didn’t you notice you wore the wrong clothes? That was my jacket.” Miss Y said she realized it when she put it on, but there was no time to change, so she just wore it. “It has your scent on it,” she added. “Do you want to smell it? Actually, no—smelling your own scent is so weird.”

What does my scent actually smell like? Miss Y says it smells like a faint, melancholy scent of fresh water.

“Does water even have a scent?”

“Who knows, but it does. Then what do I smell like?”

“Like a woman’s perfume that is full of allure.”

“And you were teasing me? What kind of description is that?”

The scent of a person is so hard to describe, yet so familiar and sweet.

When Miss Y acts spoiled, she buries her head in my arms. Every time she makes a mistake and thinks I’m going to be angry, she does that. Sometimes, I really do forgive her just because she’s so adorable. But more often than not, she’s so cute that I start to think it must have been my fault anyway.