Afternoon sunlight spread across the river. Yesterday's yacht was still floating quietly at the pier, the white light strips along the gunwales looking dim in the daylight.
I straightened the slit of my hakama skirt. The fabric hung in a straight line along the side of my leg. Dianzi walked behind me. Her wooden clogs made dull echoes against the wooden planks of the dock.
Zhao Dayong stood on the deck. The sleeves of his deep blue shirt were rolled to his elbows. Fine creases lined the fabric at the bend.
His hand rested on the gunwale. His fingers were naturally spread open. He was no longer gripping the railing. His nails were cut short. His knuckles were no longer white.
The yacht slowly pulled away from the pier. The river was wide. The sunlight shattered across it like countless pieces of tinfoil. When the wind blew, the points of light rearranged themselves.
Zhao Dayong leaned against the gunwale and looked at the distant shoreline. On the shoreline, a crane was turning slowly. Its boom traced across the sky overhead.
"I've seen this river three times now. The first time from the helicopter—it felt very narrow. The second time on the yacht—it felt very wide. The third time, now, it's different again. The first time I was looking at the scenery. The second time I was looking at the grandeur. This time I'm looking at the thing itself."
"By the thirtieth time, you won't be looking at it anymore. It'll become the background. You'll be thinking about other things." I leaned against the gunwale.
He nodded and pulled his gaze back from the shoreline, letting it land on his own hands. Those hands rested on the gunwale. They were no longer clenched and unwilling to let go.
His fingertips brushed lightly against the edge of the gunwale, as if confirming a certain texture.
Dianzi walked out from the cabin holding two glasses of champagne. A fine layer of condensation clung to the walls of the glasses. She wiped the rim of one with her finger and handed it to Zhao Dayong.
He took it and drank a sip. He didn't choke this time. "It feels alright today. A little sweet."
"The wine hasn't changed. You've changed." Dianzi leaned against the gunwale beside him. She pulled the squirrel from her bag and set it on the gunwale, facing the river. Its black-bead eyes reflected the scattered light on the river's surface. Its tail hung down over the edge of the gunwale.
Zhao Dayong looked at the distant shoreline. "Thank you for showing me so much."
"That café at the pier was only the beginning. Not the end." I looked at the distant shoreline. The crane on the shore was still turning. The shadow of its boom was cast onto the river's surface, cut into several segments by the waves.
"I know." He set his glass down on the gunwale. The glass was very steady. The bottom of the glass made a soft sound against the gunwale.
"Before, I thought luxury was about the things themselves. Now I think luxury is having someone beside you telling you that you're worthy of seeing."
——The sights you've seen don't disappear. They become negatives. When the negatives pile up thick enough, new images can be printed directly on top.
The yacht turned in the center of the river. When the hull tilted, Zhao Dayong reached out and steadied the glass on the gunwale. His finger paused on the rim for a second, then pulled back. The glass stood steady on the gunwale. It didn't tip over.
He looked down at the glass, then at his own hand.
He pulled out that movie ticket stub. The edges were already frayed. The crease had been pressed and pressed again until it was white. He flipped it over, then back. Then he tucked it flat into his pocket and patted the outside of his pocket with his palm.
"In the future, you'll have more days like this. Not waiting for a notification. Not rushing to meet a deadline. Just watching the things you haven't yet seen enough of." I pulled my hand back from the gunwale.
I walked over to hand him his champagne and pretended the sea wind made my hand unsteady, pressing a lipstick mark onto the inside of Zhao Dayong's suit collar.
That faint red landed precisely on the fold of the collar, strikingly visible against the dark fabric.
I wiped the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. "Alright. I'm stamping you. Saves us the trouble of the wind on shore blowing our photographer away. From now on, wherever you go, this stamp stays. If one day it's gone, remember to come back and get it renewed."
Zhao Dayong looked down at that faint red mark on the inside of his collar. His finger paused at the edge of the collar for a moment. He didn't wipe it.
He looked up. The corner of his mouth moved. Then he flipped the collar back down, letting the mark rest against the position of his collarbone.
"This stamp is more effective than any contract. Contracts expire. Lipstick stains don't wash out."
The yacht began to head back. The engine hummed steady and low. The stern dragged a white wake, pulling an endlessly extending line across the river's surface.
Zhao Dayong picked up the empty glass from the gunwale. The thumbprint was still on the glass wall. He placed the empty glass back on the tray, the rim spaced with neat distance from the neighboring glasses.
Then he straightened up and stood at the gunwale again. His hand rested on it. His fingers were spread open.
The yacht docked. The gangplank touched the pier. The wooden planks gave a slight spring underfoot.
When Zhao Dayong walked down the gangplank, his steps were steady. The soles of his shoes pressed down on the gangplank in an even rhythm.
The lights on the pier stretched his shadow very long. Dianzi's shadow overlapped beside his.
The corner of the movie ticket stub in his suit pocket poked out, swaying gently in the wind. He tucked the stub in a little deeper, then slipped his hand into his pocket.
He looked back at us once. Then he turned and walked toward the pier exit.