Beijing Love Story
Qiuguo, Xiaoyun Road
It was our favorite motel, tucked away in an underdeveloped alley amidst Chaoyang District’s numbing, metropolitan mush. You and I strode in every Saturday, holding hands as though it shielded us from the prying eyes of the front desk. We were a little too young to know what love was, yet made love furiously to each other under the covers to the eternal whirr of the AC, yearning for contact, fingers, lips, and tongue counting the pores of each other’s skin. The cleaning lady routinely rapped on the door midday, rounded southern dialect politely inquisitive of whether the room needed a wipe-down. No, thank you. You had an irking habit of snuffing out my giggles with your palm during conversation, all manners perched naked on the bed. In two hours please. Maybe four. Have a great afternoon. The shower water ran too hot, and the walls weren’t very soundproof. We sometimes would fall asleep fucking, your hands on my back. I woke up sometimes bewildered to the shrinking lights of the evening, cars honking a jumbled orchestra on 3rd ring road.
Intersection at Shuguangxili, 3rd Ring Road
Conveniently we lived half a mile apart. 15 minutes by foot, 7 by bike, 4 by our school’s big bronze bus that had a way around the soupy traffic of Beijing. The intersection marked our halfway point – where your world met mine. Half a decade ago our bus always rolled past the 4-way, the edges of the crosswalk curling inwards onto us. Our bodies would collide softly as the wheels tumbled past orange speed bumps. Sometimes the bus paused at the intersection and we would spot tricycles – slow, delicate machines that inched forward on reds, all wire and metal. The pedallers were immigrants, old men with strong feet and balding heads that glistened like bulbs beneath the city sun. Summer nights we rented out motorcycles and sped to the nearest fast food stores, laughing and yelling while streaking past crosswalks and yellow lights, torsos hugged tight, heads thrown back as the wind hit exposed skin. The evenings stripped Beijing of all cars. Past the intersection were miles of straight road, so we always raced down the uneven gravel, speeding free from all that stranded us down.
In front of the fire escape, Building C
The fire escape beneath my apartment gave way to a few flights of stairs that snugly fit two people, so it became our temporary battleground. When the quarrels got really bad I left marks on your skin, nails stamping tiny purple crescents along your arms. In return, my wrists would glow a tender red after you wrung them together, hands flushed beautifully from the adrenaline. No one fought like us, no one felt for each other the way we did. Neighbors would slip past occasionally, eyes glued forward, mere props of our show. You would remain silent and I would plead, yell, then scream, limbs stretched tight attempting to make contact with something, anything to draw blood, make you feel pain. Tears would streak over my cheeks, bluish black from my favorite drugstore mascara. Back then, I embraced the look. It made me feel good, desperate even.
Galleria
Beijing’s wide, dazzling malls were mazes, ones best navigated hand-in-hand. The interiors were plastered with artificial glamor, marble pressing against the soles of shoppers ravenous for name brands and fast fashion. You and I were maze runners, two teenagers that darted between mindless shoppers, tracking down food and H&Ms. We held hands as we made our way through the labyrinth of clothing, restaurants and knockoff purses. In some stores I would come out of the dressing rooms twirling in skirts and tops with their tags on, just for you. In other stores you would sneak into the dressing room with me and we would kiss and smirk and take off each other’s clothes, gripping onto the hooks for support and trying to make as little sound as possible. We would emerge grinning and sweaty.
Secret place behind the fountains, Phoenix Compound
You hated goodbyes. Per your request, the remainder of every night was passed behind the fountains of my compound, narrowing pebble-lined roads pointing to a wooden bench always moist from rain. The spot was weaved into the bushes, compound residents too occupied with office jobs to pause and take notice(it was Beijing we lived in, after all). Largely abandoned. There we’d sit for hours talking, your hands resting on my thighs, palms that could make me cry now lying docile over my lap. I savored the way your calluses tumbled against my skin. We conversed and eavesdropped on dialogue from the other side of the stone fence until conversations got dull. The topics of our dialogue were Schrodinger, Calculus or Wednesday meatballs at the cafeteria – I left absentminded comments and you would echo them, eyes following my lashes as they cast nets over my cheeks. Nights settled in fast. Messages from our parents always came too early, vibrating their phones and forcing us to part again.
On the phone, my room
I was grateful for you and my little purple tear-stained pillow navigating me through the hours past midnight. You constantly reminded me that I evoked your thoughts, emotions, and that you couldn’t do without me. I enjoyed seeing you happy but even more so seeing you sad, for reasons I still can’t put into words. We called until the horizons burned white, sparrow calls cutting through the mute air of city mornings. Dawn’s arrival was always surprising. The intensity of the love we shared was infatuating, and I enjoyed the notion that we were bound together at the age of 18. How romantic. It was comforting to know that someone would stay, no matter how badly I fucked things up. How passionate. In no alternative universe would we go our separate ways. How dreamy, how fucking one-of-a-kind.
At my door, Building C
After a fight when I was certain you’d left me, you appeared right at my door. You didn’t even ring the doorbell, or knock, or call - I was puffy-eyed, staring at a smudge on the window when I felt a tug on my chair and fell back right into your open arms. I had thought we were over. My sister was standing at the door holding your texts on her phone, yawning to our weekly routine. Moments like those I knew you were the one. This was the dream, the rom-com type of shit everyone fantasizes about. In return, my bed was as accustomed to your shape as it was to my own, and you had been introduced to the family, cat included. I unzipped my torso open for you to examine and you gradually learned to do the same. My Grandma knows your middle name. What more could you ask? Only good things were ever said about you, me cautious to make sure the ones I loved loved you the same.
Capital Airport, Terminal 2
Tonkatsu before I left, in celebration of your early decision acceptance. Five months before you joined me across the Pacific, two months before we fell apart. Kisses and hugs. No doubt we would make it through this last push. Sure, our relationship was a little fucked, but which love story wasn’t?
You cried at the security checkpoint as we hugged.