The summer night breeze drifted in through the window, accompanied by the chirping of cicadas. Jiang Nong and Yu Lingxin had agreed to do one thing for each other. They lay on the bed, spreading out paper before them.
Originally, they’d said one thing every day—but later decided that was too difficult and changed it to once every half-month.
Jiang Nong held her brush and asked Yu Lingxin what he wanted to do.
“You go first.” In truth, he just wanted to do something with her. As he’d said himself, he had no hobbies—exceptionally dull.
But Jiang Nong certainly did. She’d been talkative as a child, curious about everything, always running and jumping—all things Yu Lingxin had slowly learned about her over time.
When you love someone, you want to know everything about them.
Since he wouldn’t say, Jiang Nong couldn’t write anything—she couldn’t gauge the limits.
Yu Lingxin finally said: “I want to go boating. I’ve never been boating before—with you.” The most important part was “with you.”
Jiang Nong lifted her brush and scribbled swiftly across the paper, patting her chest in assurance: “Don’t worry. Xi is full of water—I’m a great swimmer. I know how to row a boat. I’ll take you.”
Yu Lingxin bumped his forehead against hers, rolled beside her, and drawled: “I’m not a good swimmer. You’ll have to protect me~ I’m so scared~”
Jiang Nong patted his shoulder, filled with a surge of boldness and responsibility: “Don’t worry, don’t worry.”
After Yu Lingxin had his turn, it was Jiang Nong’s. She bit the end of her brush and thought for a long while about what to put first. Finally, she looked outside and wrote: “Plant some flowering trees outside the window.”
She listed them off for him: “We can plant gardenias, osmanthus, wintersweet, jasmine, daphne, and magnolia—so there will be flowers in every season. In spring, summer, and autumn, when we open the window, the breeze will carry their fragrance.”
Planting flowers, grass, crops, or trees was all roughly the same. Yu Lingxin had spent years farming and was quite experienced, so he took on the task with full confidence.
As for what they’d do in half a month—that would be decided then.
Jiang Nong lifted the paper and saw that the ink had bled through, staining the mattress. She glanced up at Yu Lingxin, then quietly laid the paper back down.
If he found out, she’d look foolish.
But how could Yu Lingxin miss it? He lifted the paper again and said: “Jiang Nong is a dummy.”
Jiang Nong reached out both hands and pressed the paper back down: “Not a dummy. The paper looks thick, but who knew the ink would soak right through? The paper came from your study—it’s Yu Lingxin’s fault for having bad paper.”
She finished, then felt that wasn’t right either—she was blaming Yu Lingxin again. She let out a breath: “Fine. Jiang Nong is a dummy.”
Yu Lingxin was strangely happy—she’d actually called him a dummy. He tickled her cheek: “Jiang Nong isn’t a dummy. Yu Lingxin is the dummy, for giving you paper that bleeds through.”
She shrank back from his touch, watched him laugh, and laughed along: “Fine then. Yu Lingxin is the dummy.”
He took her hand, told her to close her eyes, and wrote a few small characters on her wrist with his brush: “If Jiang Nong isn’t a dummy, guess what I wrote.”
All Jiang Nong felt was a ticklish sensation on her wrist—the fine goat-hair brush grazing her skin, making her want to pull back, but he held her fast.
After writing, he dipped the brush in ink again and blotted out the words—so even if she tried to sneak a peek, she couldn’t.
“Your name?”
Yu Lingxin shook his head.
“My name?”
He shook his head again.
She twisted her arm, looking left and right, but couldn’t make out what he’d written. There were too many strokes—how could she guess by feel? She pouted: “Why do you always blot things out after writing them? I really can’t guess.”
Yu Lingxin pointed to his own cheek.
She understood, but didn’t want to give in: “You blotted it out—how do I know I guessed right? What if you’re just saying I’m wrong so I’ll kiss you?”
“So clever?” Seeing she wouldn’t kiss him, he leaned in, cupped her face, and gave her a loud smooch on the cheek. “Then I’ll tell you—’Be happy every day.’ That’s what I wrote. Wishing smarty-pants Jiang Nong happiness every day.”
Jiang Nong touched the dried ink on her wrist—warm, the skin connecting to her heart, both burning. She leaned in and, mimicking him, gave him a loud smooch on the cheek: “And I wish dummy Yu Lingxin happiness every day too.”
“But I’m still curious—what was it you wrote on that prayer ribbon, and then blotted out?”
This struck right at Yu Lingxin’s embarrassment. His eyelid twitched. He mumbled, trying to avoid answering, and deflected: “What did you draw on yours?”
If she was too shy to say, he could reasonably remain silent.
He was being shy again—always hiding over the most unnecessary things. Jiang Nong wasn’t shy at all. She said directly: “It was for freedom. What about you? You still haven’t told me.”
His eyelid twitched again. Seeing he couldn’t dodge it, he dipped his brush in ink once more, rolled up her sleeve, and drew two lines—one long, one short—side by side, just like on the prayer ribbon. Then he blotted them out with ink and studied her expression: “Guess.”
Jiang Nong pointed at herself: “You want me to guess again?”
“Mhm.”
If he was too embarrassed to tell her directly, it must have something to do with her.
It wasn’t that Jiang Nong was narcissistic, nor that she thought little of Yu Lingxin—it was just that besides love, what else could be on his mind? If you shook him, pink bubbles would probably come out, right?
She deliberately guessed wrong, tossing out all sorts of far-fetched answers—if she guessed right, he’d be embarrassed; if she guessed wrong, he’d be annoyed.
Yu Lingxin pointed at her wrist with a sour expression: “The long one is me, the short one is you. When it’s all blotted out with ink, it becomes one whole piece. Don’t you think that’s sacred? Like we’ll be together forever.”
Even though she’d already anticipated something like this, Jiang Nong—moved as she was—still couldn’t help rubbing her chin like a worried middle-aged man, not quite understanding what was so sacred about it.
When she’d first learned to draw as a child, she at least knew to draw five sticks and five round balls for the head and limbs. Yu Lingxin was just lazy—he could have just drawn one stick.
She smoothed his hair and said: “So sacred!”
Yu Lingxin, not seeing any genuine agreement in her expression, huffed.
But at least she was willing to humor him, to joke with him—things were slowly getting better.
Jiang Nong couldn’t help asking: “Will Xiaoman’s art lessons be taught by you or a hired tutor?”
There she went again—bringing up her precious little darling.
Was she afraid he’d corrupt her treasure?
Yu Lingxin truly regretted having a child just to keep Jiang Nong around.
A child might be a seasoning for a dull marriage—but he didn’t find life with Jiang Nong dull at all, and Yu Lingyin was far too strong a seasoning, overpowering everything else.
He didn’t even want to think about it—if they had her again in this life, Jiang Nong, whether out of love or guilt and compensation, would pour all her heart into her.
But competing with a child for affection was beneath his dignity. Jiang Nong valued Yu Lingyin so much—showing jealousy would only displease her.
After a moment’s thought, Yu Lingxin smiled at her: “I know I have neither patience nor talent for painting, so of course I’d hire the best tutors for her. You know I’d give her the best.”
He was lying—she couldn’t even finish her books, so when would she have time to learn painting? He’d been too busy rushing toward his own death to cultivate such useless hobbies for her. She could pursue those on her own when she had free time.
Jiang Nong knew he was sensible when it came to important matters: “Not at all. I think you’re very talented at painting. Look at these two lines—so straight.”
She rolled up her sleeve and pointed at the two lines he’d already covered.
Comforted by her words, Yu Lingxin let out a low chuckle, his chest vibrating as he pressed against her: “This is the first time anyone’s praised my talent for painting. Thank you, Mr. Jiang.”
Though Jiang Nong wasn’t any great master, she was still better than Yu Lingxin. Her true talent was dancing—but she couldn’t very well teach him to prance around to “Plucking the Vines.” That would be ridiculous. If Xiaoman were born, she could teach her instead.
Yu Lingxin felt her mind wandering again. He urged her: “Then teach me, sir.”
He loosened his robe, revealing his still-unscarred body from this life—only a single scar over his chest. He took her hand and pressed it to his face, nuzzling: “Teach me on my body—it’s better than paper and won’t bleed through to the mattress.”
“I wrote on you earlier—now you can draw on me to pay me back.”
He pressed the brush into her hand. Her wrist trembled, and a drop of ink fell, blooming into a dark flower on his skin.
She instinctively reached out to wipe it away, smearing ink on herself as well. Her breath quickened, lashes fluttering. Flustered, she asked: “What do you want to learn?”
“Jasmine blooms in June. Teach me jasmine.” Yu Lingxin remembered she’d painted it before—she knew how.
Jiang Nong took the brush and leaned over him, her warm, moist breath spilling across his skin.
She had never painted on a person before—it was too improper, too sensual. With each stroke, his muscles twitched and trembled, punctuated by stifled gasps. His body grew warmer, the faint scent of ink mingling with the heavy drapes around them.
By the end, even she felt shy. In her fluster, she braced herself against his arm and painted faster.
Her brush strokes spread wide, covering nearly half his chest—the petals reaching all the way to his jaw before stopping. The faint veins beneath his firm skin stood out like lively branches, bearing the blossoms.
Jiang Nong leaned back, unable to look at him. She stammered: “Th-there. It’s getting late. No more playing. Go wash up and sleep.”
She tried to run, but he caught her ankle and dragged her back. Her robe tore with a sharp rip. The brush she hadn’t yet set down dragged a long ink stain across the already blotched mattress.
Leave a Reply