Summer Time/夏日时光
By Anatoly Belilovsky
Translated by Ninesnow
2015-01
彗星科幻
(译文见后)
It is a long lazy Irish day, as Irish days can be as June winds down its sails to be relieved on station by July, Sun drifting over the horizon, taking forever to make up its mind to dip a toe in the ocean, haze dimming it to a scarlet blush as thoughts of you do likewise to my face. Toward the south, a few of the taller peaks of the Wicklows poke their heads above a fog bank glowing gold with reflected sunset, the sky shades amber to crimson to blue to indigo above us, wind tickles my nose with the warm salt smell of the sea, waves lap against the sides of our little boat, its deck rolls gently under my back, your warm, work-callused hand in mine -- it doesn't get better than this, I think, afraid to frighten off my happiness with an ill-chosen word.
You stir as if you read my mind, roll over, reach across me to touch my cheek. Your hair tickles my chest. I feel my face melt into a smile.
"You ever think about the good old days?" you say, then laugh at the face I make.
"I hate winter as it is," I say. "I'd hate it more if it were colder."
"Then why does Grandma miss it so?" you say.
"Your grandma had your Grandpa then. Her youth, her looks. Her teeth."
"Her house on O'Connell Street," you add, then, breaking into a smile: "Let's dive once more. While there's still light."
I could have argued; there's plenty in the bottom of the boat already: flounder, speared, filleted, and salted; a bucket of conch; items of glass, ceramic, and plastic, intact or not too badly damaged. I could have begged fatigue -- but for the breathless tone of your voice, the softness in your eyes, the parting of your lips -- none of these ever attended casual requests. The first time you spoke to me in that tone of voice followed the last morning I woke alone.
I don my mask by way of answer, shrug into my scuba gear, and go over the side, backwards. Bubbles rise, sea quiet fills my ears until I hear the splash you make as you appear in the water beside me. You bring your face close to mine; your mouthpiece forces your lips into a clown grin, but your true smile sparkles in your eyes behind the mask.
You jackknife, flip, and swim straight down. I follow.
Old Dublin lies below: its orphaned bridges rising from the mud that buried what had been the River Liffey, the shallow arch of Ha'penny, the deadly spear of the Beckett near the staved-in tilted barrel of the old Convention Centre, churches without count --
I wonder what our families miss the most.
Your grandparents, and mine, stayed in Wicklow after the ocean rose above the highest steeple in Dublin, after the ships took most of the others to new pastures in Greenland and on the Antarctic rim, to the forests marching from the Pacific coast into the heartland of the American Southwest, to hydroelectric farms off Tierra del Fuego. Our people didn't run, my mother said, from the Potato Famine, from Troubles, from the Civil War; they won't run now. Besides, my father said, our poverty protects us. We've hardly anything anyone would want, and what we value is well protected. At that my mother's hand drew to the dagger at her belt, her gaze swept over the crossbows hanging on our walls, the telescopes peering through each window, the rope snaking through a hole in the ceiling to the alarm bell on the roof.
You swim directly for the Ha'penny Bridge. I follow, turning this way and that, but there is no sign of danger. Angelfish and sergeant majors dart this way and that, foraging in the young corals that break straight-line outlines of buildings; stingrays drift slowly, inches above the silt. Off in the distance, a dolphin leaps, reentering the water smooth as a knife, not a bubble rising from its snout. I run my mind over my mental map of the Temple Bar: Farrington's on the corner of Eustace and Essex, the countless other little pubs between it and the colonnaded monstrosity of City Hall, the craft shops lining both sides of the river, rich pickings to be had: old - very old, now! - whisky, imported spirits, nonperishable delicacies (hard salami, particularly, preserved by salt water into rock hardness but giving an incredible whiff of flavour to the blandness of the fish soup we eat seven days a week.) But you bypass them, head straight down Essex. To Grafton? I dove there many mornings while you still slept, hoping to bring you a pretty bauble or three; but found no treasures left unpicked in its jewelry shops, only broken glass and empty boxes scattered like dead bivalves about their floors.
But then you stop, descend the last few inches. Your feet touch the bottom in front of -- a pharmacy? My heart flips in my chest. What is it you need, that bone whisperers back in the Wicklows cannot give you?
The pharmacy door is open, has probably been open for years, antibiotics and painkillers looted long ago, but its doorway is narrow, too narrow to enter wearing scuba. You strike the harness release; the scuba falls, raises a cloud of silt that roils to your waist. You grasp the door, brace one leg against the doorjamb, swim through. I wait, stilling my breathing lest I squander the air I may need should you require help. And wait. And wait.
You always could hold your breath longer than I, than anyone we know. When you appear at last I lurch toward you, pulling the air hose and mouthpiece to your face lest you suffer a half second longer than necessary. You crouch, drop the packages you carry, grab and deploy the mouthpiece and take a shuddering breath, then another. I watch until your breathing steadies, than bend to look at what you brought.
Pregnancy tests, vacuum sealed. Prenatal vitamins.
Baby blankets.
We hold hands as we rise. The decompression clock has never run so slow.
It's not much darker when we break the surface than it was when we began. I ease your mask off, catch your mouthpiece as you spit it out; you do the same for me. We kiss, each grasping the side of the boat with one hand, caressing each other with the other, then swim to opposite sides of the boat and climb on at the same time, keeping it in balance, struggling out of our scubas and tearing off each other's swimsuits --
It is quite dark when we are done, but warmth in the air is even slower to ebb than the twilight. Neither of us is in a hurry to dress. Neither feels any need to speak until the waxing crescent of the moon rises from beneath the sea.
"Someday we'll tell our children about the good old days," you say. "Days like today. What do you think we'll miss, then? What won't be there, that we'll wish there was?"
I turn toward you. "Not this," I say, my lips a hair's breadth from yours, before we are silenced with a kiss.
———————————————--
这是爱尔兰漫长而又慵懒的一天。在爱尔兰的这个时节,六月缓缓得落帆远航,七月接踵而至;太阳在地平线上挪动,好像永远也下不了决心把脚尖伸入海洋。朦胧烟雾笼罩下的太阳鲜红如血,一如我想起你时脸庞烧起来的颜色。南面的维克劳山脉中,几座较高的山峰从雾霭缭绕的岸边探出头来,在夕阳光辉的映射下闪着金光。天空逐渐从琥珀色渲染成深红色,又过度到蓝色,最后伸展成靛青色高悬于头顶。带着咸味的温暖海风挠着我的鼻子。海浪怕打着我们乘坐的这艘小船的船帮。甲板在我身下轻轻摇动,我握着你温暖结茧的手——默默的想着没有比这更美好的事情了,生怕说出什么煞风景的话惊走我的幸福。
就像看穿了我的想法,你起身转向我,伸手抚摸我的脸颊。你的头发拂过我的胸膛。我感到我的脸融化在笑容中。
你问我:“你有没有想过从前那些美好的日子?”然后被我的表情逗的大笑。
“我恨冬天。”我说。“天越冷我就越恨它。”
“为什么奶奶那么想念冬天?”你说。
“那时候你奶奶和你爷爷在一起。那时候的她年轻,漂亮,牙也没掉光。”
“她在奥康奈尔大街还有幢房子。”你补充,然后又突然笑着说:“趁着天还亮,咱们再潜一次水吧。”
我本可以反对;船舱里已经有了足够的东西:用鱼叉捉上来剖成两片经过腌渍的比目鱼;一桶海螺;各种完整或是有些小缺损的玻璃器皿,陶器和塑料制品。我本可以央求说我累了——但是你屏气凝神的语调,你眼中的温柔和你微张的双唇——所有这一切都是你郑重其事时的表现。你第一次用这种语气和我说话就终结了我一个人孤枕而眠的日子。
作为回答,我带上潜水镜,穿戴好潜水装备,走向船舷,背向水面,翻身入水。气泡向上涌出,耳畔萦绕着海的寂静,直到我听见你入水的声音,看到你出现在我身旁。你把脸贴近我的脸;你嘴里含着呼吸器,看上去就像咧嘴傻笑的小丑,而你真正的笑容在潜水镜后的双眼中闪烁。
你弯折身体,再伸展开,径直向下游去。我跟随着你。
古老的都柏林在我们下方展开:被遗弃的桥梁从淤泥中升起,淤泥下掩埋着曾经的利菲河,半便士桥浅浅的拱弧,贝克特桥那致命长矛的旁边是旧时会议中心破碎的倾斜桶身,数不清的教堂—--
我在思考我们的家族最怀念什么。
当海平面没过都柏林最高的尖顶,绝大多数的人乘船离开了这里。他们有的去了格陵兰和南极洲边缘的新牧场;有的去了美国西海岸的森林,从太平洋海岸挺进美国西南腹地;有的去了离火地岛不远的水电农场。你的祖父母和我的祖父母则留在了维克劳山上。我母亲说过,大饥荒的时候我们的人没有逃,北爱问题的时候我们的人没有逃,内战时我们的人也没有逃;他们现在也不会逃。另外我父亲也说过,贫穷是我们的护身符。我们几乎没有值得别人觊觎的东西,我们会好好保护自己看重的东西。说这番话的时候母亲的手拂过挂在腰带上的匕首,她的目光扫过各种防御措施:挂在墙上的十字弓,伸出每扇窗的望远镜,穿过天花板的开口伸向屋顶系着警戒铃的绳子。
你径直游向半便士桥。我跟着你,不时地望向四周,没发现任何危险的迹象。蝴蝶鱼和豆娘鱼在我们身边穿梭,在破坏建筑物笔直轮廓线的新生珊瑚中觅食;刺鳐在淤泥上方一英寸缓缓游动。远处,一只海豚跳出水面,又像锋利的刀子般流畅的扎入水中,嘴吻处没有一个气泡冒出。我在头脑中勾勒出圣殿酒吧区的地图:法林顿酒吧在尤斯塔斯街和艾塞克斯街的拐角处,在它和饰有柱廊的庞大的市政大厅之间是无数的小酒吧,河两岸是一家接一家的手工制品店,店里还有大量的物品:古老的物品——在当今非常古老!——威士忌,进口烈酒,可以长久保存的美食(坚硬的意大利腊肠,特别是经过海水的浸泡已经和岩石一样坚硬,却能给鱼汤带来一种令人难以置信的温和口味,我们一周七天都在吃这种汤)。而你只是经过它们,沿着埃塞克斯街向前游。是去格拉夫顿么?很多个清晨当你还在熟睡时,我会潜到那里希望能为你找到一两个漂亮的小玩意儿;但是从来没在珠宝店里找到残留的宝藏,那里只有碎玻璃和空盒子,像死海贝一样散落在地板上。
就在此时你停了下来,最后下沉了几英寸,站在海底,面对着——一家药店?我的心脏在胸腔内狂跳。你需要什么,难道你得了什么病,连维克劳山上的摸骨理疗师也无法治愈?
药店的门是开着的,可能多年以前就被打开,抗生素和止疼药很久之前就已被洗劫一空。药店的入口太窄了,无法穿着潜水设备通过。你松开了束带;潜水设备脱落下来,一团泥沙混杂的脏水升腾到你的腰间。你抓住门,一只脚蹬住门前的立柱,游了进去。我等待着,屏住呼吸生怕浪费了一点儿空气,我要节省空气以防你会需要。就这样等着,等着。
你憋气的时间总是比我长,比我们认识的任何人都长。当你终于出现的时候,我抓着导气管冲向你,把呼吸器按到你的脸上,生怕你会多承受半秒钟的痛苦。你蹲下身,扔下手中的包裹,抓过呼吸器,戴好后颤抖着吸入一口气,紧接着又是一口。我看着你,直到你的呼吸稳定下来,然后弯腰看你带出来的东西。
真空密封的验孕棒。孕期维生素。
婴儿毯。
我们手牵手向上游去。减压表从来不曾跑地这么慢。
当我们冲破水面时,天色并没有比我们入水时暗很多。我轻轻摘掉你的潜水镜,接住你吐出的呼吸器;你对我做了同样的事情。我们接吻,用一只手抓住船舷,用另一只手抚摸对方,然后为了保持船的平衡,分别游到船的两侧同时爬上了船,挣脱潜水设备,剥下潜水服—--
当我们做完这一切天色已经很暗了,空气中的暖意却比黄昏退散的还慢。我们俩都没急着穿回衣服,也都没觉得有必要说点什么,直到正在逐渐变满的新月升上海面。
“总有一天我们会对我们的孩子们说起那些过去的好日子,”你说。“像今天这样的日子。你觉得到那时我们会怀念什么?有什么已经不再存在,但我们会希望它还在那里?”
我转向你。“不是这个,”我说。我的唇和你的唇只有毫厘之隔,然后我们无声拥吻。
「完」
—————————————————————————--
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By Anatoly Belilovsky
Translated by Ninesnow
2015-01
彗星科幻
(译文见后)
It is a long lazy Irish day, as Irish days can be as June winds down its sails to be relieved on station by July, Sun drifting over the horizon, taking forever to make up its mind to dip a toe in the ocean, haze dimming it to a scarlet blush as thoughts of you do likewise to my face. Toward the south, a few of the taller peaks of the Wicklows poke their heads above a fog bank glowing gold with reflected sunset, the sky shades amber to crimson to blue to indigo above us, wind tickles my nose with the warm salt smell of the sea, waves lap against the sides of our little boat, its deck rolls gently under my back, your warm, work-callused hand in mine -- it doesn't get better than this, I think, afraid to frighten off my happiness with an ill-chosen word.
You stir as if you read my mind, roll over, reach across me to touch my cheek. Your hair tickles my chest. I feel my face melt into a smile.
"You ever think about the good old days?" you say, then laugh at the face I make.
"I hate winter as it is," I say. "I'd hate it more if it were colder."
"Then why does Grandma miss it so?" you say.
"Your grandma had your Grandpa then. Her youth, her looks. Her teeth."
"Her house on O'Connell Street," you add, then, breaking into a smile: "Let's dive once more. While there's still light."
I could have argued; there's plenty in the bottom of the boat already: flounder, speared, filleted, and salted; a bucket of conch; items of glass, ceramic, and plastic, intact or not too badly damaged. I could have begged fatigue -- but for the breathless tone of your voice, the softness in your eyes, the parting of your lips -- none of these ever attended casual requests. The first time you spoke to me in that tone of voice followed the last morning I woke alone.
I don my mask by way of answer, shrug into my scuba gear, and go over the side, backwards. Bubbles rise, sea quiet fills my ears until I hear the splash you make as you appear in the water beside me. You bring your face close to mine; your mouthpiece forces your lips into a clown grin, but your true smile sparkles in your eyes behind the mask.
You jackknife, flip, and swim straight down. I follow.
Old Dublin lies below: its orphaned bridges rising from the mud that buried what had been the River Liffey, the shallow arch of Ha'penny, the deadly spear of the Beckett near the staved-in tilted barrel of the old Convention Centre, churches without count --
I wonder what our families miss the most.
Your grandparents, and mine, stayed in Wicklow after the ocean rose above the highest steeple in Dublin, after the ships took most of the others to new pastures in Greenland and on the Antarctic rim, to the forests marching from the Pacific coast into the heartland of the American Southwest, to hydroelectric farms off Tierra del Fuego. Our people didn't run, my mother said, from the Potato Famine, from Troubles, from the Civil War; they won't run now. Besides, my father said, our poverty protects us. We've hardly anything anyone would want, and what we value is well protected. At that my mother's hand drew to the dagger at her belt, her gaze swept over the crossbows hanging on our walls, the telescopes peering through each window, the rope snaking through a hole in the ceiling to the alarm bell on the roof.
You swim directly for the Ha'penny Bridge. I follow, turning this way and that, but there is no sign of danger. Angelfish and sergeant majors dart this way and that, foraging in the young corals that break straight-line outlines of buildings; stingrays drift slowly, inches above the silt. Off in the distance, a dolphin leaps, reentering the water smooth as a knife, not a bubble rising from its snout. I run my mind over my mental map of the Temple Bar: Farrington's on the corner of Eustace and Essex, the countless other little pubs between it and the colonnaded monstrosity of City Hall, the craft shops lining both sides of the river, rich pickings to be had: old - very old, now! - whisky, imported spirits, nonperishable delicacies (hard salami, particularly, preserved by salt water into rock hardness but giving an incredible whiff of flavour to the blandness of the fish soup we eat seven days a week.) But you bypass them, head straight down Essex. To Grafton? I dove there many mornings while you still slept, hoping to bring you a pretty bauble or three; but found no treasures left unpicked in its jewelry shops, only broken glass and empty boxes scattered like dead bivalves about their floors.
But then you stop, descend the last few inches. Your feet touch the bottom in front of -- a pharmacy? My heart flips in my chest. What is it you need, that bone whisperers back in the Wicklows cannot give you?
The pharmacy door is open, has probably been open for years, antibiotics and painkillers looted long ago, but its doorway is narrow, too narrow to enter wearing scuba. You strike the harness release; the scuba falls, raises a cloud of silt that roils to your waist. You grasp the door, brace one leg against the doorjamb, swim through. I wait, stilling my breathing lest I squander the air I may need should you require help. And wait. And wait.
You always could hold your breath longer than I, than anyone we know. When you appear at last I lurch toward you, pulling the air hose and mouthpiece to your face lest you suffer a half second longer than necessary. You crouch, drop the packages you carry, grab and deploy the mouthpiece and take a shuddering breath, then another. I watch until your breathing steadies, than bend to look at what you brought.
Pregnancy tests, vacuum sealed. Prenatal vitamins.
Baby blankets.
We hold hands as we rise. The decompression clock has never run so slow.
It's not much darker when we break the surface than it was when we began. I ease your mask off, catch your mouthpiece as you spit it out; you do the same for me. We kiss, each grasping the side of the boat with one hand, caressing each other with the other, then swim to opposite sides of the boat and climb on at the same time, keeping it in balance, struggling out of our scubas and tearing off each other's swimsuits --
It is quite dark when we are done, but warmth in the air is even slower to ebb than the twilight. Neither of us is in a hurry to dress. Neither feels any need to speak until the waxing crescent of the moon rises from beneath the sea.
"Someday we'll tell our children about the good old days," you say. "Days like today. What do you think we'll miss, then? What won't be there, that we'll wish there was?"
I turn toward you. "Not this," I say, my lips a hair's breadth from yours, before we are silenced with a kiss.
———————————————--
这是爱尔兰漫长而又慵懒的一天。在爱尔兰的这个时节,六月缓缓得落帆远航,七月接踵而至;太阳在地平线上挪动,好像永远也下不了决心把脚尖伸入海洋。朦胧烟雾笼罩下的太阳鲜红如血,一如我想起你时脸庞烧起来的颜色。南面的维克劳山脉中,几座较高的山峰从雾霭缭绕的岸边探出头来,在夕阳光辉的映射下闪着金光。天空逐渐从琥珀色渲染成深红色,又过度到蓝色,最后伸展成靛青色高悬于头顶。带着咸味的温暖海风挠着我的鼻子。海浪怕打着我们乘坐的这艘小船的船帮。甲板在我身下轻轻摇动,我握着你温暖结茧的手——默默的想着没有比这更美好的事情了,生怕说出什么煞风景的话惊走我的幸福。
就像看穿了我的想法,你起身转向我,伸手抚摸我的脸颊。你的头发拂过我的胸膛。我感到我的脸融化在笑容中。
你问我:“你有没有想过从前那些美好的日子?”然后被我的表情逗的大笑。
“我恨冬天。”我说。“天越冷我就越恨它。”
“为什么奶奶那么想念冬天?”你说。
“那时候你奶奶和你爷爷在一起。那时候的她年轻,漂亮,牙也没掉光。”
“她在奥康奈尔大街还有幢房子。”你补充,然后又突然笑着说:“趁着天还亮,咱们再潜一次水吧。”
我本可以反对;船舱里已经有了足够的东西:用鱼叉捉上来剖成两片经过腌渍的比目鱼;一桶海螺;各种完整或是有些小缺损的玻璃器皿,陶器和塑料制品。我本可以央求说我累了——但是你屏气凝神的语调,你眼中的温柔和你微张的双唇——所有这一切都是你郑重其事时的表现。你第一次用这种语气和我说话就终结了我一个人孤枕而眠的日子。
作为回答,我带上潜水镜,穿戴好潜水装备,走向船舷,背向水面,翻身入水。气泡向上涌出,耳畔萦绕着海的寂静,直到我听见你入水的声音,看到你出现在我身旁。你把脸贴近我的脸;你嘴里含着呼吸器,看上去就像咧嘴傻笑的小丑,而你真正的笑容在潜水镜后的双眼中闪烁。
你弯折身体,再伸展开,径直向下游去。我跟随着你。
古老的都柏林在我们下方展开:被遗弃的桥梁从淤泥中升起,淤泥下掩埋着曾经的利菲河,半便士桥浅浅的拱弧,贝克特桥那致命长矛的旁边是旧时会议中心破碎的倾斜桶身,数不清的教堂—--
我在思考我们的家族最怀念什么。
当海平面没过都柏林最高的尖顶,绝大多数的人乘船离开了这里。他们有的去了格陵兰和南极洲边缘的新牧场;有的去了美国西海岸的森林,从太平洋海岸挺进美国西南腹地;有的去了离火地岛不远的水电农场。你的祖父母和我的祖父母则留在了维克劳山上。我母亲说过,大饥荒的时候我们的人没有逃,北爱问题的时候我们的人没有逃,内战时我们的人也没有逃;他们现在也不会逃。另外我父亲也说过,贫穷是我们的护身符。我们几乎没有值得别人觊觎的东西,我们会好好保护自己看重的东西。说这番话的时候母亲的手拂过挂在腰带上的匕首,她的目光扫过各种防御措施:挂在墙上的十字弓,伸出每扇窗的望远镜,穿过天花板的开口伸向屋顶系着警戒铃的绳子。
你径直游向半便士桥。我跟着你,不时地望向四周,没发现任何危险的迹象。蝴蝶鱼和豆娘鱼在我们身边穿梭,在破坏建筑物笔直轮廓线的新生珊瑚中觅食;刺鳐在淤泥上方一英寸缓缓游动。远处,一只海豚跳出水面,又像锋利的刀子般流畅的扎入水中,嘴吻处没有一个气泡冒出。我在头脑中勾勒出圣殿酒吧区的地图:法林顿酒吧在尤斯塔斯街和艾塞克斯街的拐角处,在它和饰有柱廊的庞大的市政大厅之间是无数的小酒吧,河两岸是一家接一家的手工制品店,店里还有大量的物品:古老的物品——在当今非常古老!——威士忌,进口烈酒,可以长久保存的美食(坚硬的意大利腊肠,特别是经过海水的浸泡已经和岩石一样坚硬,却能给鱼汤带来一种令人难以置信的温和口味,我们一周七天都在吃这种汤)。而你只是经过它们,沿着埃塞克斯街向前游。是去格拉夫顿么?很多个清晨当你还在熟睡时,我会潜到那里希望能为你找到一两个漂亮的小玩意儿;但是从来没在珠宝店里找到残留的宝藏,那里只有碎玻璃和空盒子,像死海贝一样散落在地板上。
就在此时你停了下来,最后下沉了几英寸,站在海底,面对着——一家药店?我的心脏在胸腔内狂跳。你需要什么,难道你得了什么病,连维克劳山上的摸骨理疗师也无法治愈?
药店的门是开着的,可能多年以前就被打开,抗生素和止疼药很久之前就已被洗劫一空。药店的入口太窄了,无法穿着潜水设备通过。你松开了束带;潜水设备脱落下来,一团泥沙混杂的脏水升腾到你的腰间。你抓住门,一只脚蹬住门前的立柱,游了进去。我等待着,屏住呼吸生怕浪费了一点儿空气,我要节省空气以防你会需要。就这样等着,等着。
你憋气的时间总是比我长,比我们认识的任何人都长。当你终于出现的时候,我抓着导气管冲向你,把呼吸器按到你的脸上,生怕你会多承受半秒钟的痛苦。你蹲下身,扔下手中的包裹,抓过呼吸器,戴好后颤抖着吸入一口气,紧接着又是一口。我看着你,直到你的呼吸稳定下来,然后弯腰看你带出来的东西。
真空密封的验孕棒。孕期维生素。
婴儿毯。
我们手牵手向上游去。减压表从来不曾跑地这么慢。
当我们冲破水面时,天色并没有比我们入水时暗很多。我轻轻摘掉你的潜水镜,接住你吐出的呼吸器;你对我做了同样的事情。我们接吻,用一只手抓住船舷,用另一只手抚摸对方,然后为了保持船的平衡,分别游到船的两侧同时爬上了船,挣脱潜水设备,剥下潜水服—--
当我们做完这一切天色已经很暗了,空气中的暖意却比黄昏退散的还慢。我们俩都没急着穿回衣服,也都没觉得有必要说点什么,直到正在逐渐变满的新月升上海面。
“总有一天我们会对我们的孩子们说起那些过去的好日子,”你说。“像今天这样的日子。你觉得到那时我们会怀念什么?有什么已经不再存在,但我们会希望它还在那里?”
我转向你。“不是这个,”我说。我的唇和你的唇只有毫厘之隔,然后我们无声拥吻。
「完」
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