As Love Dies

The mobile phone screen suddenly lit up as I poured the just-thawed ribs into the claypot. An MMS from an unknown number contained no text—only a single photo. In the dim, yellowed hotel corridor, Joshua Gresham stood sideways before the door, fumbling for the room key. That dark gray cashmere coat of his, which I had sent to the dry cleaners just last week, still bore the brooch I had given him pinned at the collar. The claypot simmered on the stove, the scent of pork rib soup wafting through the kitchen. I stared for half a minute at the photo of his slightly hunched back, then turned and drew the German-made bone-cleaving knife from the rack. The blade was heavy; as I gripped it, the coldness of the metal crawled up my palm. As the elevator descended, the cabin walls reflected my twisted face. My hair was tangled, the collar of my pajamas askew, and the red veins in my eyes spread like a spider's web. The journey from the seventeenth floor to the first was long enough for me to rehearse thirty different scenes of bursting through the door—each one demanding the use of this knife. The leaves of the plane tree at the hotel's entrance rustled in the evening breeze. I stood by the revolving door, staring at the reflection in the glass—a madwoman brandishing a knife—and was suddenly struck by a memory of my mother's face before she died. She lay on the ICU bed, still holding my hand, saying, "Nora, don't panic when things happen. No matter how big the trouble, a good night's sleep halves it." At that moment, Joshua Gresham stood outside the ward, dressed in a sharp suit, sleeves rolled up to reveal the watch I had given him. He gave me a reassuring gesture, the tenderness in his eyes capable of drowning someone. The weight of the bone-cleaving knife suddenly became unbearable. I stuffed it into the holly bushes in the flower bed and brushed the soil from my hands, as if discarding a bag of spoiled milk. When I pushed open the door to room 1808, Joshua Gresham stood with his back to me, untying his tie. The unfamiliar scent of perfume on him prickled my nostrils like tiny needles, making them itch. "I'm back." He turned around, the surprise on his face lasting only half a second before he masked it with his usual gentle smile. "Didn't you say you'd be with a client tonight?" I sat on the sofa, watching him hurriedly kick the scattered high heels under the bed. Those red stilettos were as sharp as some kind of weapon, and two sizes smaller than mine. "Joshua Gresham," my voice was unusually calm, as if asking about the weather, "why?" He parted his lips, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Neon lights outside the window filtered through the gauze curtains, casting mottled, shifting patches of light across his face, like a painting crumpled then reluctantly smoothed flat. "Nora, please listen to me..." "I'm listening." I cut him off, my fingertips nervously tracing the wood grain on the sofa's armrest. "I just want to know why. Seven years together—there must be a decent reason." His phone suddenly vibrated on the bedside table. The instant the screen lit up, I saw the lock screen wallpaper clearly—it was still the photo we took last year; I was wrapped in his coat, smiling with two teeth showing. The scene was unbearably ironic. I rose and walked to the door, pausing briefly as my hand rested on the doorknob. He remained standing there, his tie hanging loosely around his neck like a snake gasping for air. "I expect to hear your answer at home by nine tomorrow morning." The moment I closed the door, muffled sobs from a woman drifted down the hallway. I didn't look back; the sharp click of my high heels on the floor tolled like a death knell over this marriage.