INEVER THOUGHT THAT the person who would process my divorce papers is someone I knew: my newspaper's proofreader. I wasn't even given time to be puzzled as she handed me a yellow form and instructed me in a patient voice: "This is your divorce certificate. Just check the boxes and circle the answers according to your situation and that'll be it."
Just like when I filled out all other forms, I made mistakes in a few places. Sweat was dripping from my head as I repeatedly apologized.
I never thought he could shift his love to another woman so quickly. But the most frightening thing was that he could hook up with that colleague of mine, that pregnant one.
To my own surprise I didn't even bring up how our property would be divided. I just very calmly signed my name, and tore the carbon copy from the stack of forms, folding it up and sticking it in my pocket as if I were collecting a receipt.
As I walked down the street, feeling totally lost, I suddenly felt that there was someone blowing into my ear.
Terror-stricken, I opened my eyes to the unbearable rays of the sun. Pig's face was resting next to mine on my pillow, grinning like an idiot.
"I dreamt that we got divorced," I said in a haze.
After I said it I was suddenly clear-headed. I bore my fangs and snapped at him, "You didn't even spare the pregnant woman!"
Pig dodged left and right, felt wronged and cried out, "Dreams don't count! Dreams don't count!"
I was puzzled about how I could have had such a realistic dream. I remembered the two of them talking cheerfully as they walked away together. I even remembered sizing up my pregnant colleague and seeing the stripes of her black and white skirt wrap around her tight body. Admittedly stylish.
"I got a copy of the divorce certificate, printed on yellow paper. It's sealed," I said.
"You're an idiot. You only get the certificate after you get divorced. How could they give it to you before?" Pig once again looked down upon me from his tower of common knowledge.
Pig is the kind of lucky person who forgets things once they pass. I am not.
I asked him, as if struck by paranoia, "But why did I have this kind of dream?"
Pig turned round, "Because I have never done anything like that before."
I let out a big sigh, "It's not the first time we are having different dreams in the same bed."
My girlfriend Susu once asked me why I didn't write more about marriage. She loved reading about the subject.
I always replied, "I'm busy now. I'll do it in a few days."
To be honest, my mind was wavering uncertainly, as if standing on a thin wooden board high up in the air. I'm dreadful that I might step into the empty space.
I only dare to write about marriage when I'm in a good mood, because there is always a lingering fear that once I become gloomy, I will drag all unhappy thoughts out of the corners of my memory, even probing down into the roots of my mind to find the true meaning of this thing called "marriage" and realize it is trifling and meaningless like all other things in life. In fact, I'm more often gloomy than happy.
The Taiwanese singer Xin Xiaoqi once sang, "All love is despair, but those who are lucky would simply enjoy it." It's true because everything in the world, the more you question it the more desperate you become. Either that or you instantly become a philosopher — but isn't it worse to be a philosopher?
As my muddle-headedness passes, I think marriage is great. But my only fear is that if I blindly write it so, I will mislead older girls and make them think that marriage is a blooming flower accompanied by the singing of angels and a cure to cast off the desolation surrounding the loneliness of insomniatic pillows. In fact, sometimes when there are two heads per pillow it can make you feel lonelier if they have different dreams.
Take, for example, Pig and I.
Our nightmares were always out of sync. We even had our own personal erotic dreams.
My dream lover was skinny, white, and sensitive. His fingers and figure were long and slender, and he had a rich literary air about him. He didn't talk much.
Pig's ideal bedmate, however, came in three varieties: little female servant types, little white-collar types, and little college girl types. In short, pretty little girls.
Sometimes we were both perplexed — how could the one you love and the one you marry be poles apart? Big black Pig, thick and strong, not even a wee bit sensitive, despises arts and loves to grin like a dumbass. And me, with a violent temper, don't wear underwear, like to dress like a vagabond and act ostentatious in public. I feel twinges of pain when I see these lacey lotus leaves. I have a "proper wife's" face that looks like it knows nothing of romance. My breasts are as innocent as my face. Not a hint of sexuality in them.
Falling in love relies on passion. Marriage relies on reason.
Though we did not go through a period of passion, we still could reasonably marry.
I think that if we didn't have this life as husband and wife, this matrimonial kind of thing, everything would be extraordinarily perfect.
"Turn on the light," Pig said.
"Keep it off," I insisted.
"Just one minute for foreplay," countered Pig.
"I dare you," I said.
"Take the pill," he said.
"Wear a condom," I said.
"I like the night," I said
"I'm more vigorous in the morning," said Pig.
Go to hell. The thing I can least stand is bending over right after waking up. I got up and left.
"Women shouldn't take the lead," said Pig.
"Then why don't you just go rape someone in the street?" I said, laughing coldly.
I turned on some music, something romantic.
Pig casually shut it off. Too noisy.
"Couldn't you act more shy and bashful?" Pig asked.
"Wouldn't you rather me pretend to be a virgin?" I retorted.
Pig laughed his stupid laugh.
"I can't get in bed with you if you keep chuckling like a moron."
Now I was really annoyed.
"Do you have to be so cool? You make me look like a rapist!"
Now Pig was really losing his patience.
"But I thought you liked rape?" I scoffed.
"Fine, you want me to be cool? I AM BOND, JAMES BOND!" yelled out Pig. It sounded surprisingly good, just like the real thing.
