Chapter 3

Suhang did everything a “good husband” was supposed to do. Sometimes I even thought he really loved me, and I wanted to do something for him in return.

I’d take the initiative to buy him clothes. He always acted genuinely surprised, saying he loved them and would take great care of them, and he really did wear them often.

But later I realized he only wore them often in front of me. If he was visiting a client’s home, he would definitely spray on the cologne that client had given him. If he was going to my dad’s place, he would definitely wear the watch my dad had given him.

Maybe he didn’t actually like the clothes I bought him. He was just living under other people’s roofs and knew how to keep everyone pleased.

I didn’t mind. As long as he was willing to coax me, I was happy to be coaxed.

After all, I’d already exhausted my family’s patience. He was the only one who treated me with such gentleness.

Before, I’d never cared about anything he did, and I would never show up with him at any event.

Now, as long as he needed me-client dinners, coworkers’ weddings, small gatherings with friends-I’d hold onto his arm and play the loving wife, in perfect step with him.

But once we got home, this “match made in heaven” would go back to our separate rooms, like roommates sharing an apartment. No, he was more like a hotel attendant.

“Sorry to disturb you, honey!”

“Would you like something to drink?”

“I stay up late. If you need anything, just call me anytime!”

…

At first, I refused to have a marital life with him. I didn’t love him and knew he didn’t love me, and I couldn’t be bothered to pretend.

“It’s okay, we have plenty of time. Take it slow, I’ll wait for you.” He came off as very considerate.

When he closed the door and left, I saw the tight lines of his shoulders suddenly relax, like he’d just escaped a disaster. Hah. I was the one preserving his dignity, yet he got to fully play the gentleman.

About three months later, one day I suddenly teased him by his ear: “Honey, tonight is fine.”

He froze for a moment, flustered like he’d been backed into a corner. “Are you sure? I don’t want to force you. I can keep waiting, I’m not in a hurry…”

“I’m in a hurry.”

He was struck speechless.

“What, you don’t want to?”

He stiffened in embarrassment, then put on that usual smile. “How could I not? I’ve really been looking forward to it.”

I remember it was drizzling that night, a fine, endless rain. We were both nervous.

In the lamplight, his figure looked inexplicably thin.

“Should I turn off the lights?” he asked.

Before I could answer, he turned them off.

I could feel his touch-careful, tentative, restrained, clumsy. He claimed he’d been looking forward to this for so long, but he felt like a sacrifice being forced to the altar.

“Forget it,” I said.

He insisted on seeing it through, relying entirely on his acting to perform deep affection, tenderness, and happiness.

After that night, we were a bit like coworkers who had to attend one or two monthly meetings. We’d discuss the time in advance, then run through the process step by step.

Usually he’d make an appointment ahead of time. “Honey, can I come over tonight? It’ll be a bit late-is around eleven okay?”

“Okay.”

“Oh, alright. Then get plenty of sleep during the day, okay? I don’t want to affect your rest.”

…

He was always cautious, constantly watching me. If I so much as frowned, he’d ask:

“Does it hurt?”

“Is this better?”

“Are you tired?”

…

I was a bit cold, and he was a bit too “considerate.”