You told me the night before that he likes you, in a way more than friends.
Congratulations, I said.
You might have thought I said it out of courtesy, because I felt like I did sound that way, but no. I am surprised, yes, because I've never expected things to take such a pleasant twist.
I am, in fact, genuinely happy for you, and the fact that I feel this way surprises me as well, because I thought I would behave indifferent towards anything that is happening around me.
And everytime I think of you and him, it never fails to bring a small smile on my face. I bet it tastes sweeter than the vanilla latte I spent on you, eh?
I tried to imagine the way he said the words to you, because often they sound awkwardly ordinary. Of course, I did not ask you, because I've forgotten to.
Haha.
I tried to imagine the moment you told me the news. You warned me beforehand not to tease you.
I wonder, were you surprised that I did not react the way you expected me to? Did it take you time to tell me? Were you nervous? Was I the first to know?
While previously I could've simple guess the answers to my queries correctly (your reactions are quite predictable), this time I was unable to do so, because we had been leading distinct lives since the beginning of this year. The portion of moments shared together gets smaller. I don't know how much you've changed.
Lucky you, girl, that you've found your him. It must've taken lots of efforts and sheer luck to thread the two of you together over the distant of the Pacific. I know you'll appreciate him, I hope he will, too. Whatever that happens next, I just wish you the best of luck, because a happy ending is still too soon to be said.
Just, please, don't end up on the bed when you two finally meet, yeah?
I kid! :P
30/8/08
Sat
*
This letter does come off a little too early, I'll say X( But I can't stop the brain juice!
Congrats, very sincerely.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Dear Mr. A,
You sit quietly at your seat, staring at an unseen space, deep in your thoughts.
You told me things, things that does not really matter to me, that I do not need to know. And it is only a day later that I wonder, why did you tell me? I am quite sure, though, that besides the matter of trust, you are just being yourself.
Or perhaps, I am not the only one who knows them?
Is that your usual façade? Or is that really you? You do not seem happy or satisfied with your current situation. Sorry, if I jump to conclusion.
You said the reason you asked me those questions is so to know me better. It might have been asked out of curiosity, or just pure fun. I do not think you really know me. While I fool around like an overgrown kid, you do not know me.
I do not tell you things, things like what you tell me.
You might not be interested anyway.
You are quiet today, even though you still walk around the class, you are quiet.
I noticed, that there are days when you are the person we know, or recognized; and there are times when you keep to yourself, while nobody notices.
Funny, how people do not notice, when you are usually the one who leads to liven up the class.
You said the world is unfair. I know, I really do; we all do. It is just that when you are stuck in a situation like this, you cannot afford to be pessimistic.
So I told you to cheer up, to not be envious of others, to make best of what you have.
I do not think you absorb them; I believe you might have even think of these words as mere clichés.
I do not bother.
I just wish you are happy.
I wonder, what were you thinking, then?
22/7/08
Tues
You told me things, things that does not really matter to me, that I do not need to know. And it is only a day later that I wonder, why did you tell me? I am quite sure, though, that besides the matter of trust, you are just being yourself.
Or perhaps, I am not the only one who knows them?
Is that your usual façade? Or is that really you? You do not seem happy or satisfied with your current situation. Sorry, if I jump to conclusion.
You said the reason you asked me those questions is so to know me better. It might have been asked out of curiosity, or just pure fun. I do not think you really know me. While I fool around like an overgrown kid, you do not know me.
I do not tell you things, things like what you tell me.
You might not be interested anyway.
You are quiet today, even though you still walk around the class, you are quiet.
I noticed, that there are days when you are the person we know, or recognized; and there are times when you keep to yourself, while nobody notices.
Funny, how people do not notice, when you are usually the one who leads to liven up the class.
You said the world is unfair. I know, I really do; we all do. It is just that when you are stuck in a situation like this, you cannot afford to be pessimistic.
So I told you to cheer up, to not be envious of others, to make best of what you have.
I do not think you absorb them; I believe you might have even think of these words as mere clichés.
I do not bother.
I just wish you are happy.
I wonder, what were you thinking, then?
22/7/08
Tues
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Magical Piñata
Anya never had a birthday party, not even a birthday present. All she ever got for her birthday was a visit to her mother in the hospital.
Her father worked very hard to keep the both of them and her grandmother alive. For every meal they took they were grateful that they got to fulfill their stomach.
Her sandy blonde hair was always tied into two messy short braids by her grandmother and tugged behind her ears, with a faux diamond barrette her mother had intended to give her two years ago. Her pale face, soul-less eyes and tiny body twitched hearts, more so her background. She was a quiet eight-year-old, always sitting at her seat silently listening attentively to the teacher or her classmates.
No-one could recall the last time she spoke or even made a sound.
Her classmates knew her birthday - they had asked the teacher one day when she was absent from school - but they did not dare to give her the presents they had prepared. It could be a birthday cake, or a scrapbook, or dry pressed roses they stole from the florist a week before. Afraid, of her cold response.
Her mother was on coma due to a strong blow at the back of her head. On the way home from the supermarket on Anya's sixth birthday, she was hit by a car and thrown up to air, and fell on her head. The barrette for her daughter was held so tightly in her hand it cut her. Anya just stared at her mother in ICU and later the barrette Nurse Vern gave to her. She hugged her legs and cried.
Nurse Vern had since became Anya's only friend. She visited Anya every Sunday after church in the playground, maybe sit at the swing, or play the slides, or the see-saw. They would sit by the bench under the shade, welcoming the warmth by the Sun, quietly. Even so she knew the one-hour quiet emotional support wasn't enough for her to recover from the abrupt blow two years ago.
Nurse Vern, Anya's father, Anya's grandmother, Anya's favourite English teacher and her classmates decided that, on her ninth birthday, they would organise a small birthday potluck in the playground. Soraya brought candies; Hans brought syrup; Jonine brought marshmallows and chocolate sauce; everyone else brought everything else sweet. Nurse Vern collected candies from the staff in the hospital and made into a piñata almost Anya's size.
Anya's grandmother brought her granddaughter to the playground early in the Sunday morning. She just glanced at her nervous guests. Happy birthday, they said to her. She was surprised, they could see it. And they were secretly relieved. At least they could identify her response.
Nurse Vern gave Anya a wooden stick. She looked up at the nurse with questions on her face. "Don't you remember it's your birthday today?" Nurse Vern knelt down and said gently to her.
Anya looked down at the stick in her hands. Nurse Vern pointed to the colourful, patchy piñata hung low at the cherry tree. "That's a piñata." Soraya blindfolded her. Anya grabbed Nurse Vern's jeans. She pushed the little birthday girl to the piñata. "It's a magical piñata. Swing your bat and hit the piñata. Make a wish before you swing."
Anya wished inside her heart and started swinging the bat. Her classmates all shouted directions to her excitedly. Left, left, right, right, just above you, turn around. The piñata swung right and left.
"You have to say your wishes outloud, Anya, only can you aim the piñata," Hans braved himself and shouted to her. Anya turned towards the direction of the voice, panting.
"Yes, say it aloud, Anya!" Greg shouted.
"The piñata won't let your hit him if you don't tell him your wish!" Francin shouted.
"A piñata is deaf, Anya!" Derik shouted.
Anya stood still, panting. The noise tuned down. Holding breath.
"I... I wish... I wish mother will open her eyes so I can tell her I love her and I've missed her," she said as loud as possible, and swung her bat as hard as possible. The piñata opened; the candies fell down like rain, and so were her tears. Hopes showered her.
Anya's father ran towards her and hugged her tightly and cried along with her. She had never spoken a word for two years. He had not shed a tear for two years; resisted the image of his wife in his mind for two years; the thought that his wife will be gone forever, lingered on for two years. Her classmates crowded around her, telling her repeatedly how much they loved her, crying.
"Come." Nurse Vern held Anya's small wrist and gently lead her to a wooden table. A thin woman was sitting on the wheelchair, smiling weakly at them.
Anya's father broke into tears.
"Mother!"
The piñata contained the hopes of everyone for a miracle to happen, a wish to come true. But I couldn't tell whether the piñata was really magical. Maybe Tinker Bell had secretly sprinkled on some gold dust, I don't know. All I know is that the imperfect piñata rekindled the flame of hope of a little girl, and her father, and the happiness it brought was priceless.
I am Anya's friend, Vern.
Her father worked very hard to keep the both of them and her grandmother alive. For every meal they took they were grateful that they got to fulfill their stomach.
Her sandy blonde hair was always tied into two messy short braids by her grandmother and tugged behind her ears, with a faux diamond barrette her mother had intended to give her two years ago. Her pale face, soul-less eyes and tiny body twitched hearts, more so her background. She was a quiet eight-year-old, always sitting at her seat silently listening attentively to the teacher or her classmates.
No-one could recall the last time she spoke or even made a sound.
Her classmates knew her birthday - they had asked the teacher one day when she was absent from school - but they did not dare to give her the presents they had prepared. It could be a birthday cake, or a scrapbook, or dry pressed roses they stole from the florist a week before. Afraid, of her cold response.
Her mother was on coma due to a strong blow at the back of her head. On the way home from the supermarket on Anya's sixth birthday, she was hit by a car and thrown up to air, and fell on her head. The barrette for her daughter was held so tightly in her hand it cut her. Anya just stared at her mother in ICU and later the barrette Nurse Vern gave to her. She hugged her legs and cried.
Nurse Vern had since became Anya's only friend. She visited Anya every Sunday after church in the playground, maybe sit at the swing, or play the slides, or the see-saw. They would sit by the bench under the shade, welcoming the warmth by the Sun, quietly. Even so she knew the one-hour quiet emotional support wasn't enough for her to recover from the abrupt blow two years ago.
Nurse Vern, Anya's father, Anya's grandmother, Anya's favourite English teacher and her classmates decided that, on her ninth birthday, they would organise a small birthday potluck in the playground. Soraya brought candies; Hans brought syrup; Jonine brought marshmallows and chocolate sauce; everyone else brought everything else sweet. Nurse Vern collected candies from the staff in the hospital and made into a piñata almost Anya's size.
Anya's grandmother brought her granddaughter to the playground early in the Sunday morning. She just glanced at her nervous guests. Happy birthday, they said to her. She was surprised, they could see it. And they were secretly relieved. At least they could identify her response.
Nurse Vern gave Anya a wooden stick. She looked up at the nurse with questions on her face. "Don't you remember it's your birthday today?" Nurse Vern knelt down and said gently to her.
Anya looked down at the stick in her hands. Nurse Vern pointed to the colourful, patchy piñata hung low at the cherry tree. "That's a piñata." Soraya blindfolded her. Anya grabbed Nurse Vern's jeans. She pushed the little birthday girl to the piñata. "It's a magical piñata. Swing your bat and hit the piñata. Make a wish before you swing."
Anya wished inside her heart and started swinging the bat. Her classmates all shouted directions to her excitedly. Left, left, right, right, just above you, turn around. The piñata swung right and left.
"You have to say your wishes outloud, Anya, only can you aim the piñata," Hans braved himself and shouted to her. Anya turned towards the direction of the voice, panting.
"Yes, say it aloud, Anya!" Greg shouted.
"The piñata won't let your hit him if you don't tell him your wish!" Francin shouted.
"A piñata is deaf, Anya!" Derik shouted.
Anya stood still, panting. The noise tuned down. Holding breath.
"I... I wish... I wish mother will open her eyes so I can tell her I love her and I've missed her," she said as loud as possible, and swung her bat as hard as possible. The piñata opened; the candies fell down like rain, and so were her tears. Hopes showered her.
Anya's father ran towards her and hugged her tightly and cried along with her. She had never spoken a word for two years. He had not shed a tear for two years; resisted the image of his wife in his mind for two years; the thought that his wife will be gone forever, lingered on for two years. Her classmates crowded around her, telling her repeatedly how much they loved her, crying.
"Come." Nurse Vern held Anya's small wrist and gently lead her to a wooden table. A thin woman was sitting on the wheelchair, smiling weakly at them.
Anya's father broke into tears.
"Mother!"
The piñata contained the hopes of everyone for a miracle to happen, a wish to come true. But I couldn't tell whether the piñata was really magical. Maybe Tinker Bell had secretly sprinkled on some gold dust, I don't know. All I know is that the imperfect piñata rekindled the flame of hope of a little girl, and her father, and the happiness it brought was priceless.
I am Anya's friend, Vern.
The Way We Were
It has been 20 years since I last been here. It seems like just a blink, but everything had changed so much. The buildings were taller, the vehicles more, but the sky and the river are still as clear as before. I stepped out the taxi and breathed in the Italian air. Being in the US for so long, it had brainwashed me into an American. I had two American wives, but they were old stories. There is nothing to be said about them. I have brought my family over to New York after I graduated, so strictly speaking, there is nothing left her for me except for my Italian tongue, my Italian heart and my Italian memories.
It was evening, by then. The purple orange glow shone on the river and the lovely couple on the gondola. Families sat by the table near the river and ate their dinner, children chasing each other around and screaming in Italian. It was so familiar, and yet so new to my ears. What had become of me? I stared at the couple, the song Memories slowly and softly played inside my head and the shadows of those two slowly appeared. Thomas and Jane. I smiled. I heard from my old course mates that they were married and returned to Malaysia, a far Eastern country. They have proved to me that first loves are not necessary failures. But, failure or not, that doesn’t matter. I don’t remember the first girl I kissed or the first girl I woke up with.
Thomas and Jane were the loveliest couple I’ve ever seen. Thomas, studying in England, then, came to Rome for a visit. We knew each other in the subway. That time, Jane was my course mate and also my house mate. Even so, we weren’t very close, but I liked her because of her innocence. Secretly I called her Arianna, an Italian name which means ‘innocent’. And so I became buddies with Thomas, and out of a sudden, Jane got to know him, too. As I didn’t have the same lecturer as Jane’s, we seldom see each other, and it was even rare for both of us to meet Thomas at the same time. I heard from her that she and Thomas went outings together. I didn’t treat it seriously as they just met and I don’t believe in love at first sight either. However, as time went by, they started to walk together. I was in rage. Besides that I was jealous of Jane, as I couldn’t spend more time with Thomas, I was even jealous of him.
I tried chasing Jane. For the whole year, my heart was never on my studies, and I flunked my whole second year. I was required to re-take the exam, whereas Jane graduated and went up to third year smoothly. Thomas went back to England on August, for his semester was about to start. Just when I thought that I had the chance, the both of them still kept contact. I was so angry that by the time Thomas came again; I beat him up, landing him in the hospital. When I confessed my love to Jane, she cried and slapped me. The hot, burning sensation was still on my left cheek. I suddenly realized what I have done wrong. I regretted it so much that I couldn’t even face any of my friends.
That was how I ended up in New York. I transferred my credits to another university and finished my course. It was there I had my first and second jobs, and it was there I married and divorced my first and second wives. Life was hectic, but I’d never know until now that I had thrown everything of me away.
I breathed the fresh air and greeted my first ‘salve’ and ‘ciao’ after 20 years. And then I used my cellphone and made an international call. After a few dials someone picked it up. “Hello?”
Jane’s voice was still pretty much the same, except deeper. “Ciao, señorita Jane,” I greeted.
“Ciao… oh, Anatole?” her voice was suddenly chirpy. “Where are you now?”
I turned and faced my back to the river, looking at the vehicles passing by slowly as if they own all the time on Earth. “Back in Italy. How’re you and Thomas?”
“We’re alright. He’s not as handsome as before, though. He’s in Arab now, working, leaving me with the three kids.”
“Three already?”
“Yes. The eldest one - I think you should remember Win Zee; I sent you her photo, no? – she’s 16, having her O-Levels this year. I had another daughter and son, which forms a trio.” She laughed heartily. “So, how’s your life?”
I shrugged. “So-so. You know how the Americans are: working, marry, divorce, etc.. Both of you must have a really strong bond. I envy you.”
“There are some heated arguments and fights, but we tried to reconcile, for the sake of the three little monkeys.” She was silent for a moment, before she continued: “Can you still sing me that phrase from Memories?”
I smiled. “Could it be that it was all so simple then? Or has time rewritten every line? If we had the chance to do it all again, tell, would we? Could we?...”
*
This was written for my English exam last year, hehehe :P
It was evening, by then. The purple orange glow shone on the river and the lovely couple on the gondola. Families sat by the table near the river and ate their dinner, children chasing each other around and screaming in Italian. It was so familiar, and yet so new to my ears. What had become of me? I stared at the couple, the song Memories slowly and softly played inside my head and the shadows of those two slowly appeared. Thomas and Jane. I smiled. I heard from my old course mates that they were married and returned to Malaysia, a far Eastern country. They have proved to me that first loves are not necessary failures. But, failure or not, that doesn’t matter. I don’t remember the first girl I kissed or the first girl I woke up with.
Thomas and Jane were the loveliest couple I’ve ever seen. Thomas, studying in England, then, came to Rome for a visit. We knew each other in the subway. That time, Jane was my course mate and also my house mate. Even so, we weren’t very close, but I liked her because of her innocence. Secretly I called her Arianna, an Italian name which means ‘innocent’. And so I became buddies with Thomas, and out of a sudden, Jane got to know him, too. As I didn’t have the same lecturer as Jane’s, we seldom see each other, and it was even rare for both of us to meet Thomas at the same time. I heard from her that she and Thomas went outings together. I didn’t treat it seriously as they just met and I don’t believe in love at first sight either. However, as time went by, they started to walk together. I was in rage. Besides that I was jealous of Jane, as I couldn’t spend more time with Thomas, I was even jealous of him.
I tried chasing Jane. For the whole year, my heart was never on my studies, and I flunked my whole second year. I was required to re-take the exam, whereas Jane graduated and went up to third year smoothly. Thomas went back to England on August, for his semester was about to start. Just when I thought that I had the chance, the both of them still kept contact. I was so angry that by the time Thomas came again; I beat him up, landing him in the hospital. When I confessed my love to Jane, she cried and slapped me. The hot, burning sensation was still on my left cheek. I suddenly realized what I have done wrong. I regretted it so much that I couldn’t even face any of my friends.
That was how I ended up in New York. I transferred my credits to another university and finished my course. It was there I had my first and second jobs, and it was there I married and divorced my first and second wives. Life was hectic, but I’d never know until now that I had thrown everything of me away.
I breathed the fresh air and greeted my first ‘salve’ and ‘ciao’ after 20 years. And then I used my cellphone and made an international call. After a few dials someone picked it up. “Hello?”
Jane’s voice was still pretty much the same, except deeper. “Ciao, señorita Jane,” I greeted.
“Ciao… oh, Anatole?” her voice was suddenly chirpy. “Where are you now?”
I turned and faced my back to the river, looking at the vehicles passing by slowly as if they own all the time on Earth. “Back in Italy. How’re you and Thomas?”
“We’re alright. He’s not as handsome as before, though. He’s in Arab now, working, leaving me with the three kids.”
“Three already?”
“Yes. The eldest one - I think you should remember Win Zee; I sent you her photo, no? – she’s 16, having her O-Levels this year. I had another daughter and son, which forms a trio.” She laughed heartily. “So, how’s your life?”
I shrugged. “So-so. You know how the Americans are: working, marry, divorce, etc.. Both of you must have a really strong bond. I envy you.”
“There are some heated arguments and fights, but we tried to reconcile, for the sake of the three little monkeys.” She was silent for a moment, before she continued: “Can you still sing me that phrase from Memories?”
I smiled. “Could it be that it was all so simple then? Or has time rewritten every line? If we had the chance to do it all again, tell, would we? Could we?...”
*
This was written for my English exam last year, hehehe :P
Maybe...
还记得那浪漫的悲剧吗？据说，杰克是个英俊的小王子。噢，他可不是皇族，那只是镇上的女孩给他的绰号。不过，他呀，连镇上最美丽的玛丽•安也看不上眼，就是喜欢爸爸送给他的那艘豪船。没事儿做的时候，他就集合船上的员工，吩咐要立刻出海。爸妈劝不了他，只好让宝贝儿子再闯一次天地。
遇见爱莉儿的时候，杰克航船的次数已不能用手指头计算了。那天刚好是他26岁生日，船上的员工为他准备一个惊喜派对，杰克可高兴啦。那时，天气正好转变，从好好的晴天变成凶猛的暴风雨。员工们及杰克极力避开，但风浪太大，船被汹涌的浪潮冲坏了。人们都被冲走了，杰克也不例外。
爱莉儿呀，这美人鱼，正逢情窦初开的年龄，成天幻想“巧遇”邻国帅气的美人鱼，就连爸爸也拿她没办法。她喜欢唱歌，无人的时候就对着游过来的海马、小丑鱼、鲨鱼唱歌。那时她隐隐约约看到一个小人儿飘浮在汹涌澎湃的大海。于是，她以最快的速度游向那人儿。爱莉儿知道他是豪船上的主人，也看到事情的来龙去脉。她也知道，人类不能活在水里，所以她带着他游向陆地。
到达陆地时，爱莉儿轻轻地把男人放在沙滩上。她想，既然男人还没醒过来，应该趁这个机会好好欣赏男人帅气的脸庞。
她抚摸着男人的脸。那如阳光般的头发及海水般的眼睛－那么地清澈，又那么地神秘，她没见过。看着他的唇，爱莉儿突然有种冲动，想把她的唇靠上他的，试试他的唇的味道，是否是甜的。
不知她知否，其实啊，她在那时候已经爱上他了。
过了一阵子，杰克吐出几口海水。爱莉儿连忙向后退，笨拙地走向大海。爸说，人鱼不可被人类发现，否则会被科学家切开肚子，好像是叫解剖。可是，她想再看看他呀！
不远处有幢古老的城堡，有三个穿着黑白衣裙的仆人从里面走出来。她们看到杰克如发现珍宝，立刻走向他。
“你们是谁？为什么我在这里？”杰克虚弱地问道。
戴着眼镜的仆人说：“我们是依微特公主的仆人。先生应该是暴风雨的受害者吧，可能是飘浮来的。”
杰克摸摸他的头，望向四周。“不是有人救我的吗？”他记得，很模糊地，有一个黑发女孩救他上岸的。她好像没有脚，只有鱼儿的尾巴。
绑辫子的人答：“没有啊，我们发现你的时候就只有你一个人。”
三个仆人你叫我嚷地要把杰克扶回城堡。杰克转头，却只看到海水。可能是个梦吧，他想。是童话里的美人鱼吗？微笑，他摇头，站起来慢慢地和那三个仆人走向城堡。
爱莉儿把头探出海里，看着四个人的背影走向城堡。她很想杰克转回头看看她，可是她很明白人鱼和人类的处境。她可不能牺牲自己及其他人鱼的生命，就只为了要让杰克看她多一眼。
回到皇宫里的房间（她可是个堂堂太平洋国王的女儿），爱莉儿躺在床上，把仆人们都打发掉。她闭着眼睛不看他，但杰克那富有磁性的的声音、杰克那深邃的眼睛、杰克那性感的唇一直在脑海里打转。
美人鱼有个不可告知的秘密：他们呀，有一种特别的能力，那就是报梦。爱莉儿报梦给陆地上的杰克，说是她把他救上岸的。虽然她想告诉他，她是个人鱼，但基于人类和人鱼的关系，她决定不说。杰克会记得吧？她自问自答。
第二天的天亮，杰克在城堡里醒过来。昨天他梦到一个很奇怪的梦，梦到一个黑发女孩，告诉他说是她救了他。那梦那么短，但又那么地逼真，仿佛若杰克睁开眼睛，就能看到、碰到黑发女孩。他耸耸肩，进入浴室梳洗。
过一阵子，他听到一阵敲门声，外面那温柔的声音道：“我可以进来吗？”
杰克开了门，发现一个与他年龄差不多的女郎站在门前对他甜甜地微笑。女孩有一头卷金发，而且娃娃般的蓝眼大得很。“睡得好吗？”她伸出她的右手。
“嗯，很舒服。您是依微特公主吧，我是杰克。”他握了她的手。“为您制造那么多麻烦，真不好意思。”
“没关系。”依微特又笑。昨天那三个仆人走进房间把两人的盘碗放在桌上，再陆陆续续地把食物拿进来。“我们一起吃早餐吧。”公主牵着他的手把他拉到桌子旁，杰克只是点点头。仆人们自个儿说着悄悄话，匆匆地走出房间。
从那时开始，杰克就住在依微特公主的城堡，两人之间的爱苗也慢慢地成长。杰克通信给隔洋的爸妈，说他想和依微特结婚。婚礼筹备得轰轰烈烈，人民、朋友及各国领袖知道了，都纷纷祝贺他们，全世界似乎都为这对爱人感到欢喜。
可是呀，全世界里只有一个人对这婚礼感到不快，那就是爱莉儿。她单纯地以为杰克会相信她。她可以听到她的心像玻璃碎了。清秀的脸上再也没有笑容，海里再也没她的歌声。
爸爸知道为什么，但也没说什么。婚礼当天，爸爸允许她和杰克见最后一次面，唯一的条件是不能说话。她高兴也来不及，只想在爸爸那光溜溜的头狠狠地吻一个。
爸爸利用魔法将她的鱼尾变成双脚，再给她衣服、鞋子及走路的能力，然后将爱莉儿送上岸。爱莉儿穿上和新娘服一样纯白的裙子，简单的线条突出她的五官，漂亮极了。她刻意靠近杰克，可他只顾着应酬，没注意她的存在。过了十几分钟，爱莉儿终于断了心，决定回到海里去，把杰克忘了，继续过她应过的生活。
就在这时，杰克看到他梦中的黑发女孩。他把她叫住。“小姐，请问……”礼貌上来说，他应该问她是否有被邀请，可是嘴巴已问：“请问我们有没有见过面？”
爱莉儿只是回头淡淡地对他微笑，本来应该感到很快乐，可是莫名其妙地，感觉很淡。她慢慢地走向夕阳。杰克望着她，他知道他应该叫住她，以免她做什么傻事。但是他没。他似乎觉得，她的家就在天涯海角。或许，她就住在海里，对着海马鲨鱼小丑鱼说着不知名的语言、唱着不知名的歌。
很神秘地，爱莉儿已经不见了。他对着大海招手，向似曾相识的女孩告别。
就这样，黑发的美人鱼带着一颗满足的心，游向大海里的玻璃城堡。
紫橙色的大海和天空分享着同样的颜色。就在夕阳落下、黑夜快笼罩大地时，杰克听到一个女声，轻轻地、幽幽地，唱出那有点开心，又有点悲伤的心情。
对啊，他想。或许，我们真的见过面。或许，我们曾恋爱过，没有轰轰烈烈的爱情，只是淡淡的、短暂的，但又深刻的爱。
“Just maybe we’ve been in love before...”
*
This was inspired by The Little Mermaid story, modified a little so that it won't seem so cruel.
遇见爱莉儿的时候，杰克航船的次数已不能用手指头计算了。那天刚好是他26岁生日，船上的员工为他准备一个惊喜派对，杰克可高兴啦。那时，天气正好转变，从好好的晴天变成凶猛的暴风雨。员工们及杰克极力避开，但风浪太大，船被汹涌的浪潮冲坏了。人们都被冲走了，杰克也不例外。
爱莉儿呀，这美人鱼，正逢情窦初开的年龄，成天幻想“巧遇”邻国帅气的美人鱼，就连爸爸也拿她没办法。她喜欢唱歌，无人的时候就对着游过来的海马、小丑鱼、鲨鱼唱歌。那时她隐隐约约看到一个小人儿飘浮在汹涌澎湃的大海。于是，她以最快的速度游向那人儿。爱莉儿知道他是豪船上的主人，也看到事情的来龙去脉。她也知道，人类不能活在水里，所以她带着他游向陆地。
到达陆地时，爱莉儿轻轻地把男人放在沙滩上。她想，既然男人还没醒过来，应该趁这个机会好好欣赏男人帅气的脸庞。
她抚摸着男人的脸。那如阳光般的头发及海水般的眼睛－那么地清澈，又那么地神秘，她没见过。看着他的唇，爱莉儿突然有种冲动，想把她的唇靠上他的，试试他的唇的味道，是否是甜的。
不知她知否，其实啊，她在那时候已经爱上他了。
过了一阵子，杰克吐出几口海水。爱莉儿连忙向后退，笨拙地走向大海。爸说，人鱼不可被人类发现，否则会被科学家切开肚子，好像是叫解剖。可是，她想再看看他呀！
不远处有幢古老的城堡，有三个穿着黑白衣裙的仆人从里面走出来。她们看到杰克如发现珍宝，立刻走向他。
“你们是谁？为什么我在这里？”杰克虚弱地问道。
戴着眼镜的仆人说：“我们是依微特公主的仆人。先生应该是暴风雨的受害者吧，可能是飘浮来的。”
杰克摸摸他的头，望向四周。“不是有人救我的吗？”他记得，很模糊地，有一个黑发女孩救他上岸的。她好像没有脚，只有鱼儿的尾巴。
绑辫子的人答：“没有啊，我们发现你的时候就只有你一个人。”
三个仆人你叫我嚷地要把杰克扶回城堡。杰克转头，却只看到海水。可能是个梦吧，他想。是童话里的美人鱼吗？微笑，他摇头，站起来慢慢地和那三个仆人走向城堡。
爱莉儿把头探出海里，看着四个人的背影走向城堡。她很想杰克转回头看看她，可是她很明白人鱼和人类的处境。她可不能牺牲自己及其他人鱼的生命，就只为了要让杰克看她多一眼。
回到皇宫里的房间（她可是个堂堂太平洋国王的女儿），爱莉儿躺在床上，把仆人们都打发掉。她闭着眼睛不看他，但杰克那富有磁性的的声音、杰克那深邃的眼睛、杰克那性感的唇一直在脑海里打转。
美人鱼有个不可告知的秘密：他们呀，有一种特别的能力，那就是报梦。爱莉儿报梦给陆地上的杰克，说是她把他救上岸的。虽然她想告诉他，她是个人鱼，但基于人类和人鱼的关系，她决定不说。杰克会记得吧？她自问自答。
第二天的天亮，杰克在城堡里醒过来。昨天他梦到一个很奇怪的梦，梦到一个黑发女孩，告诉他说是她救了他。那梦那么短，但又那么地逼真，仿佛若杰克睁开眼睛，就能看到、碰到黑发女孩。他耸耸肩，进入浴室梳洗。
过一阵子，他听到一阵敲门声，外面那温柔的声音道：“我可以进来吗？”
杰克开了门，发现一个与他年龄差不多的女郎站在门前对他甜甜地微笑。女孩有一头卷金发，而且娃娃般的蓝眼大得很。“睡得好吗？”她伸出她的右手。
“嗯，很舒服。您是依微特公主吧，我是杰克。”他握了她的手。“为您制造那么多麻烦，真不好意思。”
“没关系。”依微特又笑。昨天那三个仆人走进房间把两人的盘碗放在桌上，再陆陆续续地把食物拿进来。“我们一起吃早餐吧。”公主牵着他的手把他拉到桌子旁，杰克只是点点头。仆人们自个儿说着悄悄话，匆匆地走出房间。
从那时开始，杰克就住在依微特公主的城堡，两人之间的爱苗也慢慢地成长。杰克通信给隔洋的爸妈，说他想和依微特结婚。婚礼筹备得轰轰烈烈，人民、朋友及各国领袖知道了，都纷纷祝贺他们，全世界似乎都为这对爱人感到欢喜。
可是呀，全世界里只有一个人对这婚礼感到不快，那就是爱莉儿。她单纯地以为杰克会相信她。她可以听到她的心像玻璃碎了。清秀的脸上再也没有笑容，海里再也没她的歌声。
爸爸知道为什么，但也没说什么。婚礼当天，爸爸允许她和杰克见最后一次面，唯一的条件是不能说话。她高兴也来不及，只想在爸爸那光溜溜的头狠狠地吻一个。
爸爸利用魔法将她的鱼尾变成双脚，再给她衣服、鞋子及走路的能力，然后将爱莉儿送上岸。爱莉儿穿上和新娘服一样纯白的裙子，简单的线条突出她的五官，漂亮极了。她刻意靠近杰克，可他只顾着应酬，没注意她的存在。过了十几分钟，爱莉儿终于断了心，决定回到海里去，把杰克忘了，继续过她应过的生活。
就在这时，杰克看到他梦中的黑发女孩。他把她叫住。“小姐，请问……”礼貌上来说，他应该问她是否有被邀请，可是嘴巴已问：“请问我们有没有见过面？”
爱莉儿只是回头淡淡地对他微笑，本来应该感到很快乐，可是莫名其妙地，感觉很淡。她慢慢地走向夕阳。杰克望着她，他知道他应该叫住她，以免她做什么傻事。但是他没。他似乎觉得，她的家就在天涯海角。或许，她就住在海里，对着海马鲨鱼小丑鱼说着不知名的语言、唱着不知名的歌。
很神秘地，爱莉儿已经不见了。他对着大海招手，向似曾相识的女孩告别。
就这样，黑发的美人鱼带着一颗满足的心，游向大海里的玻璃城堡。
紫橙色的大海和天空分享着同样的颜色。就在夕阳落下、黑夜快笼罩大地时，杰克听到一个女声，轻轻地、幽幽地，唱出那有点开心，又有点悲伤的心情。
对啊，他想。或许，我们真的见过面。或许，我们曾恋爱过，没有轰轰烈烈的爱情，只是淡淡的、短暂的，但又深刻的爱。
“Just maybe we’ve been in love before...”
*
This was inspired by The Little Mermaid story, modified a little so that it won't seem so cruel.
The Dancer
The auburn hair girl was always there at night, wearing a red knee-length dress. The water in the fountain never stopped flowing, and the night breeze never stopped whispering faintly. She always came at eleven and danced till one in the morning, without music accompaniment but the cricket’s, or the water flow’s, or the rustling leaves’. And when she grew tired, she would sit at the huge, bronze statue’s feet, and started telling him about what had happened in the day.
He was always standing there, day and night, night and day. He could not leave the place, anyway. He wore a hat and a suit, and that was all. He stood there for many decades, perhaps already one century. People always refer him as some poet who once lived many years ago and the bronze statue was built of the remembrance of him. The bronze colour was not as brilliant as before, but he was still in great shape. He stood there quietly, watching the people jogged past him, or observing the colour change in the sky, or listening to the stars talking among themselves. He never interrupted a thing, nor did he care to bother about them.
When she came, he did not bother about her either. He thought she was just another girl. And when he saw her dancing, graceful and elegant, he thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. She came everyday, wearing the same red knee-length dress, bringing nothing with her but just her dance moves and her stories.
She was the eldest of four children of a poor family whose parents did odd jobs to support the family. Her father was broke several years ago. After school, she would work at a fast food restaurant until eight at night to ease her parents’ burden. And then she would dance, here in the Square with no applause, cheers and audience. He was the only audience. It was clear that she had a fondness for dancing “since forever,” he was told. Before her father was broke she attended ballroom dancing and performed in annual concerts in her school. After the horrible incident she stopped dancing in public.
She always wanted a dress, a dress that she wore specially for dancing. She did not dare to tell her parents about her wish, so she worked extra hard and saved the money she earned for the red dress. She felt like she was on stage and was being in the centre of attention, when she wore that dress and danced. “It was heavenly,” she said, but she knew that no matter how heavenly it was, she still had to face the harsh reality.
~
For a period of time, he never saw the dancing girl again. He heard from the wind that her remarkable dancing talent was discovered, and she was making big in the field.
Life returned to its normal state again. It was the same people he saw everyday, the same dogs, and the same sunsets. It was never the same at night, though. The water in the fountain never stopped flowing, and the night breeze never stopped whispering faintly. In his thoughts she would dance without music accompaniment, just the crickets’, or the water’s, or the rustling leaves’. And when she grew tired, she would sit at the huge, bronze statue’s feet, and started telling him about what had happened in the day.
~
He was nearly asleep, then. The stars were whispering among each other, and the wind left the leaves rustling, sometimes blew the brown, dried ones down to the ground.
The sound of the clicking high heels woke him up. He seldom heard this sound. Even so a gush of familiarity returned to him.
“It’s been a long time, Mr. Statue. Did you miss me?” said a female voice. With the help of the street lamps he could see clearly now. It was the dancing girl, but she looked more sophisticated. She must have become a famous dancer, then. She wore make-ups, but she practically looked the same, with her flowing brown hair in the wind and that usual red knee-length dress. She touched his feet. And then, like before, without music accompaniment but just the nature’s, she danced, for the one last time.
~
After that dance he never sees her again. Does she miss the sound of the cricket, or the water flow, or the rustle of the leaves? The wind sends a message to him that she is no longer a dancer. She is now helping out the poor ones in Africa, especially the children. She wants to help them and make the world a better place for living. To her, fame and fortune are nothing compare to seeing the innocent smiles on the children’s faces. Even though she is not living as luxury as she is when she was a famous dancer, the wind says, she is happy and blessed. She is as carefree and contented as she was when she wore the red knee-length dress and danced only to him.
He smiles.
*
This is the original version from the Chinese version.
He was always standing there, day and night, night and day. He could not leave the place, anyway. He wore a hat and a suit, and that was all. He stood there for many decades, perhaps already one century. People always refer him as some poet who once lived many years ago and the bronze statue was built of the remembrance of him. The bronze colour was not as brilliant as before, but he was still in great shape. He stood there quietly, watching the people jogged past him, or observing the colour change in the sky, or listening to the stars talking among themselves. He never interrupted a thing, nor did he care to bother about them.
When she came, he did not bother about her either. He thought she was just another girl. And when he saw her dancing, graceful and elegant, he thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. She came everyday, wearing the same red knee-length dress, bringing nothing with her but just her dance moves and her stories.
She was the eldest of four children of a poor family whose parents did odd jobs to support the family. Her father was broke several years ago. After school, she would work at a fast food restaurant until eight at night to ease her parents’ burden. And then she would dance, here in the Square with no applause, cheers and audience. He was the only audience. It was clear that she had a fondness for dancing “since forever,” he was told. Before her father was broke she attended ballroom dancing and performed in annual concerts in her school. After the horrible incident she stopped dancing in public.
She always wanted a dress, a dress that she wore specially for dancing. She did not dare to tell her parents about her wish, so she worked extra hard and saved the money she earned for the red dress. She felt like she was on stage and was being in the centre of attention, when she wore that dress and danced. “It was heavenly,” she said, but she knew that no matter how heavenly it was, she still had to face the harsh reality.
~
For a period of time, he never saw the dancing girl again. He heard from the wind that her remarkable dancing talent was discovered, and she was making big in the field.
Life returned to its normal state again. It was the same people he saw everyday, the same dogs, and the same sunsets. It was never the same at night, though. The water in the fountain never stopped flowing, and the night breeze never stopped whispering faintly. In his thoughts she would dance without music accompaniment, just the crickets’, or the water’s, or the rustling leaves’. And when she grew tired, she would sit at the huge, bronze statue’s feet, and started telling him about what had happened in the day.
~
He was nearly asleep, then. The stars were whispering among each other, and the wind left the leaves rustling, sometimes blew the brown, dried ones down to the ground.
The sound of the clicking high heels woke him up. He seldom heard this sound. Even so a gush of familiarity returned to him.
“It’s been a long time, Mr. Statue. Did you miss me?” said a female voice. With the help of the street lamps he could see clearly now. It was the dancing girl, but she looked more sophisticated. She must have become a famous dancer, then. She wore make-ups, but she practically looked the same, with her flowing brown hair in the wind and that usual red knee-length dress. She touched his feet. And then, like before, without music accompaniment but just the nature’s, she danced, for the one last time.
~
After that dance he never sees her again. Does she miss the sound of the cricket, or the water flow, or the rustle of the leaves? The wind sends a message to him that she is no longer a dancer. She is now helping out the poor ones in Africa, especially the children. She wants to help them and make the world a better place for living. To her, fame and fortune are nothing compare to seeing the innocent smiles on the children’s faces. Even though she is not living as luxury as she is when she was a famous dancer, the wind says, she is happy and blessed. She is as carefree and contented as she was when she wore the red knee-length dress and danced only to him.
He smiles.
*
This is the original version from the Chinese version.
最后那支舞
水池的水没有停止过，而晚上那清凉的风会对树说悄悄话。每天晚上，身穿红色及膝舞裙的女孩就会在那儿。她会从十一时跳舞跳到凌晨一时，没有钢琴梵哑铃的伴奏，只有哗啦哗啦的水声，呼呼的风吹及唧唧的蟋蟀。那就是她的音乐。然后，跳累了，她会坐在那铜雕像的脚下，对他诉说她一天的故事。
他每天都很安静地站在那儿，从白天到黑夜，从黑夜到白天，算起来，应该有一个世纪了。穿着一顶帽子及一件西装，他看尽了人生百态，对人生也没有多大的期望。人人常说他是什么伟大的诗人，而这雕像是为了纪念他而建立的。身上的铜色已渐渐褪色，但他还有个良好的身材，不像那些阿伯，五十岁不到就顶着啤酒肚陪老婆逛街。每天，他看着跑步的人们经过他，或看着天空由白变黄变橙变紫，或听天上的星星说悄悄话。总之，他只是个无言的观众，对这些事不理不会。
她刚来的时候，他像平常一样没理会她。对他来说，她只是个另一个女子。可是，当她妩媚地摆动手脚，她瞬间变得高贵起来。然后，跳累了，她会坐在他的脚下，对他说着故事。每天晚上，她穿着红色及膝的舞裙，带着她的舞步和故事来，然后带着很强很强的满足感回去。
她出生在一个很穷的家庭里。放了学，她就在快餐店里打工。晚上，她就在这广场跳舞，而他是她唯一的观众。她不需要掌声、不需要欢呼声、也不需要观众。她只需要她的红色及膝的舞裙和大自然的梵音。每当她穿着她的红裙跳舞，她觉得，她似乎就站在台上，成为观众的焦点。“感觉就像天堂。”她说。可是，不管感觉有多么地似天堂，她始终要面对残酷的现实。
后来，有一段时间他没遇到跳舞的女孩了。风说，女孩的跳舞才华被一名经纪人发掘，一夜间就成了大明星。
就这样，生活回到了它应有的单调。每天他见到一样的人、一样的狗、一样的夕阳。但晚上可不一样。水池里的水没有停过，而晚上那清凉的风会对树说悄悄话。在他的脑海中，女孩不需要钢琴梵哑铃的伴奏。她只需要哗啦哗啦的水声，呼呼的风吹及唧唧的蟋蟀。那就是她的音乐。然后，跳得累了，她会坐在那铜雕像的脚下，对他诉说她一天的故事。
~
他差一点睡着了。天上的星星各自儿说着悄悄话，风儿把树叶吹得沙沙沙的，有时把干了的树叶吹到地上来。
“好久不见呵，诗人先生。有想我吗？”一个女声说道。他看清楚她的脸。是那个跳舞的女孩。她依旧穿着那件红色及膝的裙子，不过脸上化了妆，看起来更成熟了。她轻轻地，很熟悉地摸了摸他的脚。她不需要钢琴梵哑铃的伴奏。她只需要大自然的梵音，跳那最后一支舞。
过后他再也没没见过她。她会想念哗啦哗啦的水声，呼呼的风吹和唧唧的蟋蟀吗？风说她没有跳舞了。她现在在非洲帮助那儿的居民，尤其是小孩。对她来说，小孩们的稚气和笑容比不上她以前拥有的名声和钱财。她过得很快乐、很满足，就像她以前穿着那红色及膝的裙子，为那唯一的观众跳舞。
他笑了。
*
This story got me the post in the Editorial Board, and it has an English version too! :P
他每天都很安静地站在那儿，从白天到黑夜，从黑夜到白天，算起来，应该有一个世纪了。穿着一顶帽子及一件西装，他看尽了人生百态，对人生也没有多大的期望。人人常说他是什么伟大的诗人，而这雕像是为了纪念他而建立的。身上的铜色已渐渐褪色，但他还有个良好的身材，不像那些阿伯，五十岁不到就顶着啤酒肚陪老婆逛街。每天，他看着跑步的人们经过他，或看着天空由白变黄变橙变紫，或听天上的星星说悄悄话。总之，他只是个无言的观众，对这些事不理不会。
她刚来的时候，他像平常一样没理会她。对他来说，她只是个另一个女子。可是，当她妩媚地摆动手脚，她瞬间变得高贵起来。然后，跳累了，她会坐在他的脚下，对他说着故事。每天晚上，她穿着红色及膝的舞裙，带着她的舞步和故事来，然后带着很强很强的满足感回去。
她出生在一个很穷的家庭里。放了学，她就在快餐店里打工。晚上，她就在这广场跳舞，而他是她唯一的观众。她不需要掌声、不需要欢呼声、也不需要观众。她只需要她的红色及膝的舞裙和大自然的梵音。每当她穿着她的红裙跳舞，她觉得，她似乎就站在台上，成为观众的焦点。“感觉就像天堂。”她说。可是，不管感觉有多么地似天堂，她始终要面对残酷的现实。
后来，有一段时间他没遇到跳舞的女孩了。风说，女孩的跳舞才华被一名经纪人发掘，一夜间就成了大明星。
就这样，生活回到了它应有的单调。每天他见到一样的人、一样的狗、一样的夕阳。但晚上可不一样。水池里的水没有停过，而晚上那清凉的风会对树说悄悄话。在他的脑海中，女孩不需要钢琴梵哑铃的伴奏。她只需要哗啦哗啦的水声，呼呼的风吹及唧唧的蟋蟀。那就是她的音乐。然后，跳得累了，她会坐在那铜雕像的脚下，对他诉说她一天的故事。
~
他差一点睡着了。天上的星星各自儿说着悄悄话，风儿把树叶吹得沙沙沙的，有时把干了的树叶吹到地上来。
“好久不见呵，诗人先生。有想我吗？”一个女声说道。他看清楚她的脸。是那个跳舞的女孩。她依旧穿着那件红色及膝的裙子，不过脸上化了妆，看起来更成熟了。她轻轻地，很熟悉地摸了摸他的脚。她不需要钢琴梵哑铃的伴奏。她只需要大自然的梵音，跳那最后一支舞。
过后他再也没没见过她。她会想念哗啦哗啦的水声，呼呼的风吹和唧唧的蟋蟀吗？风说她没有跳舞了。她现在在非洲帮助那儿的居民，尤其是小孩。对她来说，小孩们的稚气和笑容比不上她以前拥有的名声和钱财。她过得很快乐、很满足，就像她以前穿着那红色及膝的裙子，为那唯一的观众跳舞。
他笑了。
*
This story got me the post in the Editorial Board, and it has an English version too! :P
亲爱的你：
你好。知道我是谁吗？我是那矮矮的图书馆管理员，在班上笑得最大声的那一个。对，就是那个，不用指指点点。
这是封很公开的信，算是情信吧，不过说是告白信比较正确。
嗯，我们不是朋友。我们之间只是同学。同班了四年，却连朋友也当不了。真的很可悲呵。
初中一时，我只顾着看你隔壁的男生。那段恋情－暗恋－维持几个月而已，因为他说了一句话，撤澈底底地侮辱了我。那时，心简直碎了，像玻璃，好像全世界都知道，可是漠不关心。
第二年，我竟然，没有理由的，喜欢上你了。我喜欢你的磁性声音、你的内双眼皮凤眼、你那性感的唇、你那很有安全感的身材。更多的是，我喜欢的，就是你。不过，你和那个性格很酷的女生成了男女朋友。我想，她爱的人，表面上和我一样，但事实上她爱的，是真正的你吧。
15岁的我，除了忙着准备初中评估考试，也忙着喜欢你。可能是爱，也可能只是对你有强烈的好感而已，单单为了这问题我挣扎了许久，得到的答案，是没有答案。
朋友们不知道我暗恋着你，但我知道她们不喜欢你。为什么？你可能会问。我也不知道啊。不过，我还是义无反顾地天天梦见你。梦可以简单地好像我不小心碰到你的手，也可以复杂得好像有了一夜情。
如果我对你的感情只是好像一夜情，那该多好。我们在那一瞬间亲密地结合，发泄自己的欲望和不满，第二天就把你的存在忘得一干二净。这样我不需要在爱与不爱、喜欢与不喜欢的边缘忘情地徘徊。
后来，我们又被编排在同一班，而你就坐在我的后面。为此我还高兴了一段时间呵。有一次你玩了我的头发，另一次你很大声地对我喊，能不能借你的书？我惊讶得忘了反应。朋友说我有脸红，是真的吗？也不懂为什么，心里总有一丝丝的开心，当你和我说话时，哪怕只是几秒、几个字、一个点头或摇头而已。
听着许慧欣的《忽然很想你》，我真的想起你了。几年前，我悄悄地把这首歌列为你我的歌，现在，应该还是吧。
高二，我们不再是小孩。听说，你和你那性格很酷的女友又复合了。我无缘无故生闷气，生你的气。别问我为什么；我也分不清我的感情，或许是嫉妒吧。不过，都那么久了，难道……
今年的情人节，我想告诉你，我曾经那么地疯狂地喜欢你、爱你，可能现在还是。可是我说不出口。我想，现在还不是时候。随缘吧！等我不再介意你、可以和你称兄道弟的时候，那才是对的时候。
离2月14日有一个月了，但我还是想告诉你，我是多么地喜欢你。不疯狂，有一种淡淡的感觉，像夫妻。这句话，我可以省略成经典的三个字。
聪明的你，猜到了吗？猜到了，就请来我家亲口告诉我吧，你应该还记得我住在哪里。太远的话，可以在学校告诉我，我就坐在你隔壁的隔壁的后面。
苏菲雅
笔于3月14日
*
This was written on March 14th 2007, yes, the date is real. The emotions, well, partly, I guess :P
这是封很公开的信，算是情信吧，不过说是告白信比较正确。
嗯，我们不是朋友。我们之间只是同学。同班了四年，却连朋友也当不了。真的很可悲呵。
初中一时，我只顾着看你隔壁的男生。那段恋情－暗恋－维持几个月而已，因为他说了一句话，撤澈底底地侮辱了我。那时，心简直碎了，像玻璃，好像全世界都知道，可是漠不关心。
第二年，我竟然，没有理由的，喜欢上你了。我喜欢你的磁性声音、你的内双眼皮凤眼、你那性感的唇、你那很有安全感的身材。更多的是，我喜欢的，就是你。不过，你和那个性格很酷的女生成了男女朋友。我想，她爱的人，表面上和我一样，但事实上她爱的，是真正的你吧。
15岁的我，除了忙着准备初中评估考试，也忙着喜欢你。可能是爱，也可能只是对你有强烈的好感而已，单单为了这问题我挣扎了许久，得到的答案，是没有答案。
朋友们不知道我暗恋着你，但我知道她们不喜欢你。为什么？你可能会问。我也不知道啊。不过，我还是义无反顾地天天梦见你。梦可以简单地好像我不小心碰到你的手，也可以复杂得好像有了一夜情。
如果我对你的感情只是好像一夜情，那该多好。我们在那一瞬间亲密地结合，发泄自己的欲望和不满，第二天就把你的存在忘得一干二净。这样我不需要在爱与不爱、喜欢与不喜欢的边缘忘情地徘徊。
后来，我们又被编排在同一班，而你就坐在我的后面。为此我还高兴了一段时间呵。有一次你玩了我的头发，另一次你很大声地对我喊，能不能借你的书？我惊讶得忘了反应。朋友说我有脸红，是真的吗？也不懂为什么，心里总有一丝丝的开心，当你和我说话时，哪怕只是几秒、几个字、一个点头或摇头而已。
听着许慧欣的《忽然很想你》，我真的想起你了。几年前，我悄悄地把这首歌列为你我的歌，现在，应该还是吧。
高二，我们不再是小孩。听说，你和你那性格很酷的女友又复合了。我无缘无故生闷气，生你的气。别问我为什么；我也分不清我的感情，或许是嫉妒吧。不过，都那么久了，难道……
今年的情人节，我想告诉你，我曾经那么地疯狂地喜欢你、爱你，可能现在还是。可是我说不出口。我想，现在还不是时候。随缘吧！等我不再介意你、可以和你称兄道弟的时候，那才是对的时候。
离2月14日有一个月了，但我还是想告诉你，我是多么地喜欢你。不疯狂，有一种淡淡的感觉，像夫妻。这句话，我可以省略成经典的三个字。
聪明的你，猜到了吗？猜到了，就请来我家亲口告诉我吧，你应该还记得我住在哪里。太远的话，可以在学校告诉我，我就坐在你隔壁的隔壁的后面。
苏菲雅
笔于3月14日
*
This was written on March 14th 2007, yes, the date is real. The emotions, well, partly, I guess :P
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
萧邦的爱情
你知道吗？听说星星会眨眨眼睛；听说海洋很蓝很蓝；听说小孩的笑容很纯真，好象天使白白的翅膀。你说，你知道。世上美丽的人、事、物，你全都知道。我听见你的笑声，我也笑了。我还以为你忘了呢；忘了美丽的事情，忘了灿烂的微笑。
怎么可能忘了呢？记得，当然记得，你回答。
你站起身子，走向盖着白布的钢琴，把布掀起来。你坐了下来，把琴盖拿上，手指轻轻地放在琴键上。在这沁凉的夜晚，弹了首萧邦的夜曲。我靠着墙，闭上眼，细心地聆听钢琴的音符，属于你的音符。钢琴声时而大，时而小，更多的时候像在耳边的悄悄话。
很久以前，当我们还是十几岁的小孩，你想去波兰的首都－华夏参加国际萧邦钢琴比赛。我不懂波兰离这儿有多远，也不懂波兰在南在北。钢琴比赛会在那儿举行，因为波兰是萧邦的出生地。我点点头，似懂非懂，但还是很支持你。
我问过你，萧邦是何方神圣？你顽皮地敲我的头，说萧邦是罗漫史时代、世上最伟大的作曲家。萧邦是你的神！那时才十二岁的我，以为你改了信仰。
每天，放学过后，你会去附近的书店打工，可是不管有多累，你还是会在每一个晚上弹萧邦的曲子给我听，只因我愿意当你的听众。每晚，我会从我的房间爬去你的房间，为了听你弹琴。你的技巧越来越纯熟，你也越来越有自信，仿佛你真的要去波兰比赛，你的梦想终于要实现了！
可是，突然有一天，你不再弹琴了，你爸也不给我去你家。我听不到你口中所谓的华尔兹，你也不再提起钢琴比赛的事。当我问起，你只是随口打发我走。你的脾气变得很暴躁，做错什么小事就责骂我，看到我失望的表情，又心疼地跪下来抱着我，口中一直说着：“对不起、对不起、对不起……”同一幕每天上演，我对你的期望也慢慢地化为零。难道你不记得你的钢琴了么？难道你不记得萧邦了么？难道你不记得以前的夜曲、华尔兹、Polonaise了么？
难道，你连你的梦想也忘了？
你去美国的前一晚，你往我的窗口丢装着石头的纸飞机，说你要为我弹琴。我悄悄地走到走廊，托着腮，静静地看着你的背影，静静地听着你弹我最喜欢的夜曲。眼泪悄悄地流出眼眶，我没理会。我们没有足够的时间去理会这些眼泪。
我们没说话，我们不需要说话。你弹着的夜曲就是你想对我说的话。
第二天，你走了。钢琴依然盖着白布，仿佛没人移动过。
你偶尔会写信过来，问：过得好吗？吃得好吗？睡得好吗？有没生病？
我很好，吃得很好，睡得很好。托你的福，我没生病，只是偶尔的伤风咳嗽，不用担心。
三年过了，我也从儿童教育系毕业，在一间幼儿园教书。假期的时候会去叔叔的医院打工当临时儿童心理医师，教小孩唱歌啊、跳舞啊，也跟他们聊天、幻想、发白日梦。生活，其实很纯真、很快乐。
你留在美国念你的硕士。你爸很高兴有个很有出息的儿子，我也替你高兴。只是，我在想：你真的那么喜欢念书的生活吗？你曾对我诉苦，说你不喜欢读书。你只想弹琴，做个音乐家，而当音乐家，不需要读历史、生物、数学吧？
啊，琴！你的钢琴，你不想念它吗？它被白布盖了那么多年，萧邦的曲子躺在白布下等你弹奏，而你对音乐的热情，总没那么容易就被浇息了吧？写给你的信中我这么问，可你没回答，只捎来大学的点滴、去欧洲游玩的相片，以及你的美籍女友恺莉。
长大了总该有个女朋友，我没反对。你爸爸也很开心，妈开玩笑说你爸想抱孙子想得快疯了！只是，照片中的你，怎么那么忧郁？你秀出你那灿烂的阳光微笑，可是你不快乐。
你回来了。过了漫长的六年，你终于回来了。我们去机场接你，虽然那儿离这儿两个小时半，我们还是去接你了。你身边的她比照片中还漂亮！而你晒了健康的麦色皮肤，还练了一身的肌肉，嗯，帅多了！我称赞说。
我俩没真正坐下来聊聊。你忙着你的工作，我忙着我的。过了几个星期，妈对我说，你和恺莉分手了，性格不合吧。隔天一早，我从窗口看到她拿着简便的行李搭德士，你站在门口送她，眼神有点伤感。
过后的日子就这样过去，我们也没时间问候对方，学校假期时你也忙得不得了，有时向你说声“早安”你也回答得很随便，匆忙地上班去。
你爸和我妈求了你好久，你才肯请半天假庆祝你三十岁的生日。我们买了个蛋糕，细心地包你的礼物，等着你回来。可是，你没有。我们从七时开始等，等到晚上十时了你也还没回来。你爸失望地上楼睡觉，我和妈安静地收拾。那晚，你午夜才回来。我还没睡，心里在期待些事情，是什么事情我也说不上来，只能和你开玩笑，是女人的第六感！
我闭上眼之前，我听到你丢东西过来的声音，咚咚的。我悄悄地走到走廊，看见你正背对着我，手上拿着铁罐放在耳朵旁。我往下看，也看到另一个铁罐。我微笑，拾起铁罐，坐在豆袋上。那晚，我们聊了好久，你背对着我，我面着你的背。你说美国的事，我说这儿的事；你说商业的事，我说小孩的事。
回房前，我没忘记问你：你还记得你的钢琴吗？那个收藏着你最远的梦想，记得它吗？
你转过头看着我，我傻傻地望回你，银白色的月光洒在你侧脸，那时后的你看起来好温柔。
你把铁罐放在嘴前，眼神依然在我身上。怎么可能忘了呢？记得，当然记得。
第二天早上是个星期日，你难得放假，带我去稻田、然后在海边散步，走到十字路口时还差点走错路呢。在日落的凝视下，你的双手托起我的脸要吻我，我的眼睛不敢直视你的。你发现你的举止，立刻放下手向我道歉，然后握着我的手走回家。天黑了。
两年后，你三十二岁，正逢你的巅峰时期。我二十八岁，女人的适婚年龄。妈没逼我找个男人嫁掉，但我知道她实在是想抱个小孩：我的孩子，她的孙。我们为你庆祝生日，买了个蛋糕，点燃三根大蜡烛两根小蜡烛。你交叉双手，对着我笑，然后闭上眼许愿。知道你的抽屉有一大堆照片，我们就送你一本很大很大的相簿。
夜晚时，我走出房间，坐在走廊上的豆袋，喝热美碌，幸福的感觉洋溢心中。我抬头望着夜空，脑袋不空白的空白，静静地哼着《一闪一闪亮晶晶》。突然流星飞过，我赶忙放下杯子许愿。我希望你能留在我身边，永远永远的。
你又丢装着石头的纸飞机过来了。我拾起纸飞机，看到你正看着夜空。你问我，我许了什么愿？我笑。噢，说出来就不灵了！我望回你，你招手，要我过去。我犹豫一阵，你很有把握地点头。爬出木篱再爬下几节梯子，然后小心地跌在那一大块布上。那些都是你爸装的，说我何时想去你家都欢迎。虽然后来你爸不给我去你家，但他还是没有拆掉这些。我爬到你家，爬上楼梯，抓住你的手，再爬到你的木走廊上。
我坐在榻榻米，坐在旁边的你突然告诉我，华夏，是不可能的了。
怎么了？我问。你神秘地对我笑，然后站起身子，走向盖着白布的钢琴，把布掀起来。你坐了下来，把琴盖拿上来，手指轻轻地放在琴键上，在这沁凉的夜晚，弹了首萧邦的夜曲。我靠着墙，闭上眼，细心地聆听钢琴的音符。属于你的音符。钢琴声时而大，时而小，更多的时候像在耳边的悄悄话。
然后，我向你诉说我的故事。你知道吗？听说星星会眨眼睛；听说海洋很蓝很蓝；听说小孩的笑容很纯真，好象天使那双白白的翅膀。你说，你知道。世上美丽的人、事、物，你全都知道。我听见你的笑声，我也笑了。我还以为你忘了呢；忘了美丽的事情，忘了灿烂的微笑。
怎么可能忘了呢？记得，当然记得。
那晚，你笑得特别灿烂。
华夏的萧邦钢琴比赛，怎么了？我趁机问。
很深情地，你看着我。我找到了我爱的女孩，只想自私地为她弹萧邦的夜曲，不让华夏、波兰、全世界，甚至天上的萧邦听到。
我笑。恭喜你！谁是那幸运的女孩？我问，微笑着。记忆中的你还是个讨厌女生的大男孩，怎么眨眼间就变成了个懂得爱情的男人呢？
你还坐在钢琴椅上，面对着我。你假装想一会儿。我希望你能留在我身边，永远永远的。你知道吗？你是那美丽的幸运女孩，你知道吗？
我脸红了。这是第一次一个男人这样称赞我。我记得，爸曾经对我说，妈很美丽。不是漂亮，是美丽。我问他，什么分别？他只是笑笑，虽然大胡子盖了脸的一半，我知道他在笑。街上的女人很漂亮、很性感，可是只有妈是最美丽的。
You’re beautiful, you know? 你以美腔英语告诉我。你走向我，我低着头。你的双手放在我的双颊，把我的头轻轻地抬起，然后，很温柔很温柔地，你吻了我。我把双手放在你的宽厚的肩膀，哭泣。
你把我拥在怀里，吻了我的头，用手指梳我的长发。我刚才许的愿，你不想知道吗？我问。
你以英语告诉我，我已经知道，我全都知道。宝贝，我的天使，你愿意嫁给我吗？
我坐直身子，又哭了。你吻掉我脸上的泪，我破涕为笑。
多久了？
三十三年前。
我们还没出世呢。
我们存在以前，我就爱上你了，宝贝。不是说永远的吗？
我还以为你忘了求婚呢。
怎么可能忘了呢？记得，当然记得。
怎么可能忘了呢？记得，当然记得，你回答。
你站起身子，走向盖着白布的钢琴，把布掀起来。你坐了下来，把琴盖拿上，手指轻轻地放在琴键上。在这沁凉的夜晚，弹了首萧邦的夜曲。我靠着墙，闭上眼，细心地聆听钢琴的音符，属于你的音符。钢琴声时而大，时而小，更多的时候像在耳边的悄悄话。
很久以前，当我们还是十几岁的小孩，你想去波兰的首都－华夏参加国际萧邦钢琴比赛。我不懂波兰离这儿有多远，也不懂波兰在南在北。钢琴比赛会在那儿举行，因为波兰是萧邦的出生地。我点点头，似懂非懂，但还是很支持你。
我问过你，萧邦是何方神圣？你顽皮地敲我的头，说萧邦是罗漫史时代、世上最伟大的作曲家。萧邦是你的神！那时才十二岁的我，以为你改了信仰。
每天，放学过后，你会去附近的书店打工，可是不管有多累，你还是会在每一个晚上弹萧邦的曲子给我听，只因我愿意当你的听众。每晚，我会从我的房间爬去你的房间，为了听你弹琴。你的技巧越来越纯熟，你也越来越有自信，仿佛你真的要去波兰比赛，你的梦想终于要实现了！
可是，突然有一天，你不再弹琴了，你爸也不给我去你家。我听不到你口中所谓的华尔兹，你也不再提起钢琴比赛的事。当我问起，你只是随口打发我走。你的脾气变得很暴躁，做错什么小事就责骂我，看到我失望的表情，又心疼地跪下来抱着我，口中一直说着：“对不起、对不起、对不起……”同一幕每天上演，我对你的期望也慢慢地化为零。难道你不记得你的钢琴了么？难道你不记得萧邦了么？难道你不记得以前的夜曲、华尔兹、Polonaise了么？
难道，你连你的梦想也忘了？
你去美国的前一晚，你往我的窗口丢装着石头的纸飞机，说你要为我弹琴。我悄悄地走到走廊，托着腮，静静地看着你的背影，静静地听着你弹我最喜欢的夜曲。眼泪悄悄地流出眼眶，我没理会。我们没有足够的时间去理会这些眼泪。
我们没说话，我们不需要说话。你弹着的夜曲就是你想对我说的话。
第二天，你走了。钢琴依然盖着白布，仿佛没人移动过。
你偶尔会写信过来，问：过得好吗？吃得好吗？睡得好吗？有没生病？
我很好，吃得很好，睡得很好。托你的福，我没生病，只是偶尔的伤风咳嗽，不用担心。
三年过了，我也从儿童教育系毕业，在一间幼儿园教书。假期的时候会去叔叔的医院打工当临时儿童心理医师，教小孩唱歌啊、跳舞啊，也跟他们聊天、幻想、发白日梦。生活，其实很纯真、很快乐。
你留在美国念你的硕士。你爸很高兴有个很有出息的儿子，我也替你高兴。只是，我在想：你真的那么喜欢念书的生活吗？你曾对我诉苦，说你不喜欢读书。你只想弹琴，做个音乐家，而当音乐家，不需要读历史、生物、数学吧？
啊，琴！你的钢琴，你不想念它吗？它被白布盖了那么多年，萧邦的曲子躺在白布下等你弹奏，而你对音乐的热情，总没那么容易就被浇息了吧？写给你的信中我这么问，可你没回答，只捎来大学的点滴、去欧洲游玩的相片，以及你的美籍女友恺莉。
长大了总该有个女朋友，我没反对。你爸爸也很开心，妈开玩笑说你爸想抱孙子想得快疯了！只是，照片中的你，怎么那么忧郁？你秀出你那灿烂的阳光微笑，可是你不快乐。
你回来了。过了漫长的六年，你终于回来了。我们去机场接你，虽然那儿离这儿两个小时半，我们还是去接你了。你身边的她比照片中还漂亮！而你晒了健康的麦色皮肤，还练了一身的肌肉，嗯，帅多了！我称赞说。
我俩没真正坐下来聊聊。你忙着你的工作，我忙着我的。过了几个星期，妈对我说，你和恺莉分手了，性格不合吧。隔天一早，我从窗口看到她拿着简便的行李搭德士，你站在门口送她，眼神有点伤感。
过后的日子就这样过去，我们也没时间问候对方，学校假期时你也忙得不得了，有时向你说声“早安”你也回答得很随便，匆忙地上班去。
你爸和我妈求了你好久，你才肯请半天假庆祝你三十岁的生日。我们买了个蛋糕，细心地包你的礼物，等着你回来。可是，你没有。我们从七时开始等，等到晚上十时了你也还没回来。你爸失望地上楼睡觉，我和妈安静地收拾。那晚，你午夜才回来。我还没睡，心里在期待些事情，是什么事情我也说不上来，只能和你开玩笑，是女人的第六感！
我闭上眼之前，我听到你丢东西过来的声音，咚咚的。我悄悄地走到走廊，看见你正背对着我，手上拿着铁罐放在耳朵旁。我往下看，也看到另一个铁罐。我微笑，拾起铁罐，坐在豆袋上。那晚，我们聊了好久，你背对着我，我面着你的背。你说美国的事，我说这儿的事；你说商业的事，我说小孩的事。
回房前，我没忘记问你：你还记得你的钢琴吗？那个收藏着你最远的梦想，记得它吗？
你转过头看着我，我傻傻地望回你，银白色的月光洒在你侧脸，那时后的你看起来好温柔。
你把铁罐放在嘴前，眼神依然在我身上。怎么可能忘了呢？记得，当然记得。
第二天早上是个星期日，你难得放假，带我去稻田、然后在海边散步，走到十字路口时还差点走错路呢。在日落的凝视下，你的双手托起我的脸要吻我，我的眼睛不敢直视你的。你发现你的举止，立刻放下手向我道歉，然后握着我的手走回家。天黑了。
两年后，你三十二岁，正逢你的巅峰时期。我二十八岁，女人的适婚年龄。妈没逼我找个男人嫁掉，但我知道她实在是想抱个小孩：我的孩子，她的孙。我们为你庆祝生日，买了个蛋糕，点燃三根大蜡烛两根小蜡烛。你交叉双手，对着我笑，然后闭上眼许愿。知道你的抽屉有一大堆照片，我们就送你一本很大很大的相簿。
夜晚时，我走出房间，坐在走廊上的豆袋，喝热美碌，幸福的感觉洋溢心中。我抬头望着夜空，脑袋不空白的空白，静静地哼着《一闪一闪亮晶晶》。突然流星飞过，我赶忙放下杯子许愿。我希望你能留在我身边，永远永远的。
你又丢装着石头的纸飞机过来了。我拾起纸飞机，看到你正看着夜空。你问我，我许了什么愿？我笑。噢，说出来就不灵了！我望回你，你招手，要我过去。我犹豫一阵，你很有把握地点头。爬出木篱再爬下几节梯子，然后小心地跌在那一大块布上。那些都是你爸装的，说我何时想去你家都欢迎。虽然后来你爸不给我去你家，但他还是没有拆掉这些。我爬到你家，爬上楼梯，抓住你的手，再爬到你的木走廊上。
我坐在榻榻米，坐在旁边的你突然告诉我，华夏，是不可能的了。
怎么了？我问。你神秘地对我笑，然后站起身子，走向盖着白布的钢琴，把布掀起来。你坐了下来，把琴盖拿上来，手指轻轻地放在琴键上，在这沁凉的夜晚，弹了首萧邦的夜曲。我靠着墙，闭上眼，细心地聆听钢琴的音符。属于你的音符。钢琴声时而大，时而小，更多的时候像在耳边的悄悄话。
然后，我向你诉说我的故事。你知道吗？听说星星会眨眼睛；听说海洋很蓝很蓝；听说小孩的笑容很纯真，好象天使那双白白的翅膀。你说，你知道。世上美丽的人、事、物，你全都知道。我听见你的笑声，我也笑了。我还以为你忘了呢；忘了美丽的事情，忘了灿烂的微笑。
怎么可能忘了呢？记得，当然记得。
那晚，你笑得特别灿烂。
华夏的萧邦钢琴比赛，怎么了？我趁机问。
很深情地，你看着我。我找到了我爱的女孩，只想自私地为她弹萧邦的夜曲，不让华夏、波兰、全世界，甚至天上的萧邦听到。
我笑。恭喜你！谁是那幸运的女孩？我问，微笑着。记忆中的你还是个讨厌女生的大男孩，怎么眨眼间就变成了个懂得爱情的男人呢？
你还坐在钢琴椅上，面对着我。你假装想一会儿。我希望你能留在我身边，永远永远的。你知道吗？你是那美丽的幸运女孩，你知道吗？
我脸红了。这是第一次一个男人这样称赞我。我记得，爸曾经对我说，妈很美丽。不是漂亮，是美丽。我问他，什么分别？他只是笑笑，虽然大胡子盖了脸的一半，我知道他在笑。街上的女人很漂亮、很性感，可是只有妈是最美丽的。
You’re beautiful, you know? 你以美腔英语告诉我。你走向我，我低着头。你的双手放在我的双颊，把我的头轻轻地抬起，然后，很温柔很温柔地，你吻了我。我把双手放在你的宽厚的肩膀，哭泣。
你把我拥在怀里，吻了我的头，用手指梳我的长发。我刚才许的愿，你不想知道吗？我问。
你以英语告诉我，我已经知道，我全都知道。宝贝，我的天使，你愿意嫁给我吗？
我坐直身子，又哭了。你吻掉我脸上的泪，我破涕为笑。
多久了？
三十三年前。
我们还没出世呢。
我们存在以前，我就爱上你了，宝贝。不是说永远的吗？
我还以为你忘了求婚呢。
怎么可能忘了呢？记得，当然记得。
第九棵松树
我很平凡。我不是啦啦队的队长，没有天使脸魔鬼身材，更没有值得炫耀的帅气有钱男友。严格来说，我没尝过初恋的滋味，因为暗恋说来说去也不算是初恋。
秋不是我的青梅竹马蓝颜知己，但也不算是只是同学。我们之间，似乎悬挂在朋友及同学之间。说得浪漫点儿，我们友达以上，恋人未满。
秋，人如其名：不冷不热，像落叶，有点飘。怎么说呢？他说话时，样子有点不专注，虽然他明明很专心地对你解释镭的功用。他走路时，也有点飘，像走在云端，轻轻地、柔柔地，好像害怕云朵会塌下来。他是因为他那有点冷漠、有点酷的样子而出名，不过他比起那些骄傲耍酷的男生好多了。我呢，是喜欢他那飘的性格，也喜欢听他唱林俊杰的《精灵》，尤其是晚上的时候。他不太爱说话，说的话也有点无厘头，喜欢做事多过说话。
中学开学前，当秋刚搬来的时候，我负责当导游。我告诉他，我喜欢住宅区后面的松树林，尤其是第九棵松树，因为我喜欢9。我在那儿刻了我的名，也在树下放了个大箱子，说如果有什么秘密，可以把它放进“秘密箱子”里，长大了才可以看，我说得头头是道。“你把你的秘密写在蓝色的纸上，因为我喜欢蓝色。”
他轻轻地点头，说：“那你写在黑纸好了。”
多少年过去了，我渐渐忘了那第九棵松树，也忘了和他打招呼。
我并不想炫耀些什么，不过我有收过情信，第一封是在三年前的生日时。我没把那些信当真，深怕期望越大，失望也越大。女孩子总有幻想的对象，可是永远也猜不着，因为信是用电脑打出来的。他似乎很痴情。每月的26号，他会把很普通的白色A4纸，印着蓝色的“我喜欢你”的信，很细心地折三摺，然后把信放进很不普通的黑色信封里，再把信放进我的抽屉。刚开始我以为有变态人在吓我，哪有人写情信，信封是黑色的？而且，放假时，他总会亲自把信寄来我家，家人不免有点担心，怎么会有人寄黑色信封来？还有啊，现在的人都用简讯伊媚儿，哪有人还用这一套？
有时，我会在窗口等那个人，看看他的样子，不过，他似乎知道我的时间表，知道我何时不在家，所以，我总是没有和神秘变态男孩见过面。
这件事只有死党们知道，班上没有传得轰轰烈烈。表面上似什么都不在乎，心里总会荡起涟漪。他到底是谁？死党问过班上“可疑”的男生，但没有任何结果。帅气出名的男生有女朋友，呆呆的书虫没感情，普通的男生喜欢高不可攀的美女，这只剩下…没有人。
所以，很肯定的，这只是个玩笑。
三年了，我还是收到神秘变态人的信，每个月就只有“我喜欢你”这四个字，生日时加句“生日快乐”，就这样而已。没有礼物，没有花，什么也没有。不过我没期待些什么，所以也没什么失望。
我的生日在9月26日，恰好是上课的最后一天。考完大考，心情轻松多了，但也沉重。死党们要分散，一个去美国，两个去澳洲，三个去……总之，我们注定在这世上分散了。
那一天，我的生日，全都在我家聚在一起吃蛋糕、喝汽水、说秘密、拍拍照。很普通，很平凡的生日兼离别派对。当大家要离开时，我看到信箱里有黑色信封。我拆了信，里面不只写着“我喜欢你，生日快乐”，最下端还加了一行歪歪斜斜的字。“第九棵松树见。”
这不是秋的字体吗？
夜了，五个女生在空荡荡的路上走着，心惊胆跳。
“是不是搞错了？”死党问。“不可能在树林里吧。”
咦，我们，长大了吗？
我转回头跑回家，拿了抽屉里的信和日记本，再跑向松树临，朋友们呆呆地看着我，忘了反应。
第九棵松树下，有个高高瘦瘦、戴着画家帽的男生低着头靠着路灯读书，树下有两把小铲子。
他抬起头，微笑。“生日快乐。”
“一直以来，都是你吗？”我问，喘气。
他腼碘地笑，指着树干。
借着路灯的光，我看到，在我的名字上面有一排字。“我喜欢你。”
我惊讶得说不出话来。我怎么那么笨啊？竟然没留意到！我那友达以上，恋人未满的朋友，那个飘飘的朋友，他真的喜欢我？
秋弯下腰，拿起那两把铲子，交给我一把。“我们长大了，不是吗？”
我点点头。不需要说什么，也不需要拥抱亲吻。只要一个约定，就够了。
死党们不知何时消失了，学聪明了呵。“为什么不告诉我？”我问。
很突然地、轻轻地、飘飘地，像落叶般，他吻了我。“因为我要吻你。”
我敲了他的头。“你很坏耶。”
路灯照耀着挖着土地的我们。“你明明知道我喜欢蓝色，为什么信封是黑色？”我问。
“深刻点。”
“秘密箱子”终于挖出来了，而且，天啊，很重呐！我望进箱子里，看到许多蓝色的纸、蓝色的明信片、蓝色的卡片，隐隐约约看到几个黑色。
我随手拿一张纸来看，上面写着有点乱、有点幼稚的字体。“10月27日2005年：樱出远门了，好孤单。”
又另一张纸，上面附着一个小小的粉红心形卡片。“2月14日2007年：我好想把这个送给樱，可是…卡片里写着：爱你。
我捂住我的嘴巴，望着眼前那酷酷的秋。“我的天…都是你写的吗？”
秋害羞地点头。
我又敲他的头。“你怎么那么没胆量啊？亏你长得还那么酷！”
他把头探进箱子里，摸索出几张黑色的纸。
12月29日03年：那个新来的，秋，呆呆的样子挺可爱的！
5月31日04年：秋唱歌很温柔，亏他还长得那么酷、那么飘！好，决定了－喜欢他！
“啊！”我喊出声音，把那张纸枪过来。“好羞，别读啦！”
他突然捏了我的脸。“你脸红时真可爱。”
只有四张黑色的纸。
9月26日04年：收到黑色情信兼生日祝福，会是秋吗？
2月14日07年：秋好像忘了今天是情人节，只顾着收泰迪熊玫瑰巧克力说谢。起码也给我一块巧克力，祝我一声啊！
我们真是心灵相通，我自个儿想。
秋突然说：“我们今天才开始，所以今天是我们的情人节。”他向前来，用鼻子磨了磨我的，唇慢慢地贴在我的唇上。
嗯，好甜。
秋不是我的青梅竹马蓝颜知己，但也不算是只是同学。我们之间，似乎悬挂在朋友及同学之间。说得浪漫点儿，我们友达以上，恋人未满。
秋，人如其名：不冷不热，像落叶，有点飘。怎么说呢？他说话时，样子有点不专注，虽然他明明很专心地对你解释镭的功用。他走路时，也有点飘，像走在云端，轻轻地、柔柔地，好像害怕云朵会塌下来。他是因为他那有点冷漠、有点酷的样子而出名，不过他比起那些骄傲耍酷的男生好多了。我呢，是喜欢他那飘的性格，也喜欢听他唱林俊杰的《精灵》，尤其是晚上的时候。他不太爱说话，说的话也有点无厘头，喜欢做事多过说话。
中学开学前，当秋刚搬来的时候，我负责当导游。我告诉他，我喜欢住宅区后面的松树林，尤其是第九棵松树，因为我喜欢9。我在那儿刻了我的名，也在树下放了个大箱子，说如果有什么秘密，可以把它放进“秘密箱子”里，长大了才可以看，我说得头头是道。“你把你的秘密写在蓝色的纸上，因为我喜欢蓝色。”
他轻轻地点头，说：“那你写在黑纸好了。”
多少年过去了，我渐渐忘了那第九棵松树，也忘了和他打招呼。
我并不想炫耀些什么，不过我有收过情信，第一封是在三年前的生日时。我没把那些信当真，深怕期望越大，失望也越大。女孩子总有幻想的对象，可是永远也猜不着，因为信是用电脑打出来的。他似乎很痴情。每月的26号，他会把很普通的白色A4纸，印着蓝色的“我喜欢你”的信，很细心地折三摺，然后把信放进很不普通的黑色信封里，再把信放进我的抽屉。刚开始我以为有变态人在吓我，哪有人写情信，信封是黑色的？而且，放假时，他总会亲自把信寄来我家，家人不免有点担心，怎么会有人寄黑色信封来？还有啊，现在的人都用简讯伊媚儿，哪有人还用这一套？
有时，我会在窗口等那个人，看看他的样子，不过，他似乎知道我的时间表，知道我何时不在家，所以，我总是没有和神秘变态男孩见过面。
这件事只有死党们知道，班上没有传得轰轰烈烈。表面上似什么都不在乎，心里总会荡起涟漪。他到底是谁？死党问过班上“可疑”的男生，但没有任何结果。帅气出名的男生有女朋友，呆呆的书虫没感情，普通的男生喜欢高不可攀的美女，这只剩下…没有人。
所以，很肯定的，这只是个玩笑。
三年了，我还是收到神秘变态人的信，每个月就只有“我喜欢你”这四个字，生日时加句“生日快乐”，就这样而已。没有礼物，没有花，什么也没有。不过我没期待些什么，所以也没什么失望。
我的生日在9月26日，恰好是上课的最后一天。考完大考，心情轻松多了，但也沉重。死党们要分散，一个去美国，两个去澳洲，三个去……总之，我们注定在这世上分散了。
那一天，我的生日，全都在我家聚在一起吃蛋糕、喝汽水、说秘密、拍拍照。很普通，很平凡的生日兼离别派对。当大家要离开时，我看到信箱里有黑色信封。我拆了信，里面不只写着“我喜欢你，生日快乐”，最下端还加了一行歪歪斜斜的字。“第九棵松树见。”
这不是秋的字体吗？
夜了，五个女生在空荡荡的路上走着，心惊胆跳。
“是不是搞错了？”死党问。“不可能在树林里吧。”
咦，我们，长大了吗？
我转回头跑回家，拿了抽屉里的信和日记本，再跑向松树临，朋友们呆呆地看着我，忘了反应。
第九棵松树下，有个高高瘦瘦、戴着画家帽的男生低着头靠着路灯读书，树下有两把小铲子。
他抬起头，微笑。“生日快乐。”
“一直以来，都是你吗？”我问，喘气。
他腼碘地笑，指着树干。
借着路灯的光，我看到，在我的名字上面有一排字。“我喜欢你。”
我惊讶得说不出话来。我怎么那么笨啊？竟然没留意到！我那友达以上，恋人未满的朋友，那个飘飘的朋友，他真的喜欢我？
秋弯下腰，拿起那两把铲子，交给我一把。“我们长大了，不是吗？”
我点点头。不需要说什么，也不需要拥抱亲吻。只要一个约定，就够了。
死党们不知何时消失了，学聪明了呵。“为什么不告诉我？”我问。
很突然地、轻轻地、飘飘地，像落叶般，他吻了我。“因为我要吻你。”
我敲了他的头。“你很坏耶。”
路灯照耀着挖着土地的我们。“你明明知道我喜欢蓝色，为什么信封是黑色？”我问。
“深刻点。”
“秘密箱子”终于挖出来了，而且，天啊，很重呐！我望进箱子里，看到许多蓝色的纸、蓝色的明信片、蓝色的卡片，隐隐约约看到几个黑色。
我随手拿一张纸来看，上面写着有点乱、有点幼稚的字体。“10月27日2005年：樱出远门了，好孤单。”
又另一张纸，上面附着一个小小的粉红心形卡片。“2月14日2007年：我好想把这个送给樱，可是…卡片里写着：爱你。
我捂住我的嘴巴，望着眼前那酷酷的秋。“我的天…都是你写的吗？”
秋害羞地点头。
我又敲他的头。“你怎么那么没胆量啊？亏你长得还那么酷！”
他把头探进箱子里，摸索出几张黑色的纸。
12月29日03年：那个新来的，秋，呆呆的样子挺可爱的！
5月31日04年：秋唱歌很温柔，亏他还长得那么酷、那么飘！好，决定了－喜欢他！
“啊！”我喊出声音，把那张纸枪过来。“好羞，别读啦！”
他突然捏了我的脸。“你脸红时真可爱。”
只有四张黑色的纸。
9月26日04年：收到黑色情信兼生日祝福，会是秋吗？
2月14日07年：秋好像忘了今天是情人节，只顾着收泰迪熊玫瑰巧克力说谢。起码也给我一块巧克力，祝我一声啊！
我们真是心灵相通，我自个儿想。
秋突然说：“我们今天才开始，所以今天是我们的情人节。”他向前来，用鼻子磨了磨我的，唇慢慢地贴在我的唇上。
嗯，好甜。
那年的聚会
你曾说，你永远不可能穿裙、高跟鞋，不可能化妆，也不可能留长发。
结果，聚会那天，你穿了件白色及膝的连身裙和一双银色的高跟鞋，留长的头发烫直了，脸上还化了淡淡的妆。
“活脱脱像个天使。”我说。
你微笑，露出一排不太整齐的牙齿，高贵中显出了小时候的稚气。可是你的笑有一种孤单的味道。
“你也不赖呀。”你回答一句客套话，我只穿了件白色的T恤和蓝色的牛仔裤。“是真的，变高、变帅了，还有肌肉哦。一定迷倒了很多女生吧？”你开玩笑。
“谢谢。”我敷衍地微笑。对，是迷了很多人，却吸引不到你。
“每个人放了我们的飞机。”你对我说。你望着草场，曾经以为是一望无际的，现在只是一小块草地而已。
本来全班答应有个聚会，结果出席的只有你和我。
是你坐在草地上先的。“不怕脏吗？”我问，坐在你的旁边。
你又笑，你还是像以前一样那么爱笑。“没关系，脏了可以再洗！况且，没人喜欢看肮脏的屁股。”性格还是那么直。
“之前有回来过吗？”我问。
你点点头。“来拿阿德的成绩册，我姐姐总是不得空来学校拿。”
有一阵子我们彼此没说话。我很自然地从口袋里抽出烟盒，拿了一根烟放进嘴。你见状，大叫一声：“你怎么可以抽烟？！”
我点了烟，重重地吸进，再重重地呼出。“习惯了这样解压。”而且，有点紧张。
你笑，轻轻地打了我的手臂，一股暖流布满全身。“你变坏了。工作忙吗？不要累坏身子哦。”
“还好，谢谢你的关心。”我随口应你。
当晚的夜空没有星星，也没有月亮。一块黑漆漆的布，偶尔有几架飞机飞过，就此而已。篮球场的灯亮了，几个学生在那里打篮球。你呆呆地望着无趣的夜空，安静地哼着歌，我也陪你一起看。看着看着，无趣也变有趣了，可能因为你在这儿。
“J’veux pas grandir.”你喃喃自语。
我吐出烟，听到了，笑。“什么时候学法语的？”我问。可爱单纯的你，竟然会学那么浪漫的语言！
“大一的时候前男友教的，法语系的补习老师。”你回答。
心微涩。“啊，师生恋？”我酸溜溜地问。
你微笑。“我不是法语系的。他是硕士班的学生，那时才快要二八。他有一双漂亮迷人的灰色眼睛，很高，身材有点壮，简直就像个希腊神。那时有点叛逆，明知他有女朋友了还执迷不悟。不过，是他主动的。”
“持续多久？”
你想了一下。“大概两年多吧，到他毕业的时候。他给我取个法国名，Amorette，小爱人的意思。” 你微笑。
“那么，那句话，什么意思？”我明知故问。
“不想长大。”你叹息，用双手擦双臂。
“结果还是长大了。”我移向你，把外套套在你身上。毕竟，我没有勇气拥抱你。“还爱他吗？”我轻声问。
你笑。“那么久了，怎么还会呢？那时还妄想当他的太太。”你转头对着我苦笑。“我很傻，对吧？”
我没有回答，只是把右手靠在你的肩膀上。“他说，当你爱一个人的时候，你会在他的眼睛里看到老年时的自己。被爱呢，就是很温暖、很甜腻的安全感。被爱就好比白酒，要细细品味，享受酒精给你的醉意、甜蜜与安全感，太心急的话反而不能享受被爱的过程，可能连有人爱你也不知道，因为你并没有放慢脚步看看。现在想起来，他说得太唯美了，有点不符合现实。”
我拨你的头发，放在你耳后。不，爱情本就唯美，没有所谓的不现实，只是人类不太相信爱情。
在我的眼睛里，你看得到七十岁的你和我一起，也感觉到我给你的安全感吗？
我没办法问你这些问题，但我还是情不自禁地吻了你的额头。我把你的头靠在我的左胸口，让你听听我的心跳。你并没抗拒。“你今天没有笑。”你轻轻地说。
“是吗？”
你轻轻地点头。“你以前不爱笑，现在还是，真搞不懂你们的种类。”你调整了你的坐姿，你的手环抱我的腰。“很久没听法语了，可以说一句给我听吗？”
我久久没出声，看你闭上眼睛，我更紧张了。吞了一口口水，鼓起勇气说出这句我一直想告诉你的话：“Je t’aime.”我停顿一会儿。“Je t’aime, Amorette.”
“你有法国名吗？”你问，还是闭着眼睛。
我摇头，“没。”我有点失望。
“那么我给你取一个。”你微张双眼，想了一会儿。“Anatole，日出的意思。”
“哦。”
你没说话，我以为你睡着了。“Anatole.”你突然叫我。
“嗯？”
你抬头看我，甜蜜地微笑着。“Je t’aime aussi.”我笑。
到底是你吻了我，还是我吻了你，我不清楚。只是，然后，你对我说：“你笑起来还是一样那么好看。”
十点，打篮球的学生们都走了，我们还在校园流连忘返。手牵着手，回忆小学的事情，走草场，又走篮球场、礼堂周围、贩卖部、食堂，才走出校门。
那年的聚会，我们走在一起。
结果，聚会那天，你穿了件白色及膝的连身裙和一双银色的高跟鞋，留长的头发烫直了，脸上还化了淡淡的妆。
“活脱脱像个天使。”我说。
你微笑，露出一排不太整齐的牙齿，高贵中显出了小时候的稚气。可是你的笑有一种孤单的味道。
“你也不赖呀。”你回答一句客套话，我只穿了件白色的T恤和蓝色的牛仔裤。“是真的，变高、变帅了，还有肌肉哦。一定迷倒了很多女生吧？”你开玩笑。
“谢谢。”我敷衍地微笑。对，是迷了很多人，却吸引不到你。
“每个人放了我们的飞机。”你对我说。你望着草场，曾经以为是一望无际的，现在只是一小块草地而已。
本来全班答应有个聚会，结果出席的只有你和我。
是你坐在草地上先的。“不怕脏吗？”我问，坐在你的旁边。
你又笑，你还是像以前一样那么爱笑。“没关系，脏了可以再洗！况且，没人喜欢看肮脏的屁股。”性格还是那么直。
“之前有回来过吗？”我问。
你点点头。“来拿阿德的成绩册，我姐姐总是不得空来学校拿。”
有一阵子我们彼此没说话。我很自然地从口袋里抽出烟盒，拿了一根烟放进嘴。你见状，大叫一声：“你怎么可以抽烟？！”
我点了烟，重重地吸进，再重重地呼出。“习惯了这样解压。”而且，有点紧张。
你笑，轻轻地打了我的手臂，一股暖流布满全身。“你变坏了。工作忙吗？不要累坏身子哦。”
“还好，谢谢你的关心。”我随口应你。
当晚的夜空没有星星，也没有月亮。一块黑漆漆的布，偶尔有几架飞机飞过，就此而已。篮球场的灯亮了，几个学生在那里打篮球。你呆呆地望着无趣的夜空，安静地哼着歌，我也陪你一起看。看着看着，无趣也变有趣了，可能因为你在这儿。
“J’veux pas grandir.”你喃喃自语。
我吐出烟，听到了，笑。“什么时候学法语的？”我问。可爱单纯的你，竟然会学那么浪漫的语言！
“大一的时候前男友教的，法语系的补习老师。”你回答。
心微涩。“啊，师生恋？”我酸溜溜地问。
你微笑。“我不是法语系的。他是硕士班的学生，那时才快要二八。他有一双漂亮迷人的灰色眼睛，很高，身材有点壮，简直就像个希腊神。那时有点叛逆，明知他有女朋友了还执迷不悟。不过，是他主动的。”
“持续多久？”
你想了一下。“大概两年多吧，到他毕业的时候。他给我取个法国名，Amorette，小爱人的意思。” 你微笑。
“那么，那句话，什么意思？”我明知故问。
“不想长大。”你叹息，用双手擦双臂。
“结果还是长大了。”我移向你，把外套套在你身上。毕竟，我没有勇气拥抱你。“还爱他吗？”我轻声问。
你笑。“那么久了，怎么还会呢？那时还妄想当他的太太。”你转头对着我苦笑。“我很傻，对吧？”
我没有回答，只是把右手靠在你的肩膀上。“他说，当你爱一个人的时候，你会在他的眼睛里看到老年时的自己。被爱呢，就是很温暖、很甜腻的安全感。被爱就好比白酒，要细细品味，享受酒精给你的醉意、甜蜜与安全感，太心急的话反而不能享受被爱的过程，可能连有人爱你也不知道，因为你并没有放慢脚步看看。现在想起来，他说得太唯美了，有点不符合现实。”
我拨你的头发，放在你耳后。不，爱情本就唯美，没有所谓的不现实，只是人类不太相信爱情。
在我的眼睛里，你看得到七十岁的你和我一起，也感觉到我给你的安全感吗？
我没办法问你这些问题，但我还是情不自禁地吻了你的额头。我把你的头靠在我的左胸口，让你听听我的心跳。你并没抗拒。“你今天没有笑。”你轻轻地说。
“是吗？”
你轻轻地点头。“你以前不爱笑，现在还是，真搞不懂你们的种类。”你调整了你的坐姿，你的手环抱我的腰。“很久没听法语了，可以说一句给我听吗？”
我久久没出声，看你闭上眼睛，我更紧张了。吞了一口口水，鼓起勇气说出这句我一直想告诉你的话：“Je t’aime.”我停顿一会儿。“Je t’aime, Amorette.”
“你有法国名吗？”你问，还是闭着眼睛。
我摇头，“没。”我有点失望。
“那么我给你取一个。”你微张双眼，想了一会儿。“Anatole，日出的意思。”
“哦。”
你没说话，我以为你睡着了。“Anatole.”你突然叫我。
“嗯？”
你抬头看我，甜蜜地微笑着。“Je t’aime aussi.”我笑。
到底是你吻了我，还是我吻了你，我不清楚。只是，然后，你对我说：“你笑起来还是一样那么好看。”
十点，打篮球的学生们都走了，我们还在校园流连忘返。手牵着手，回忆小学的事情，走草场，又走篮球场、礼堂周围、贩卖部、食堂，才走出校门。
那年的聚会，我们走在一起。
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
