In our seventh year together, Liang Qiezhao was getting married into another family for business reasons.
The night we broke up, we were unusually calm. “I’ll move out as soon as possible,” I said.
“There’s no need for that.” The man sat hunched by the window, slowly and methodically clipping a cigar as he gave his instructions. “I’m transferring the title of this apartment to you. It’s closer to your office.” “Your old car is getting on in years and should be replaced. I’ve also left some money in your primary account.” “As for the future… if you run into any trouble and it’s inconvenient to contact me, you can call Secretary Qin.”
He spent a long time clipping that cigar. The cut was perfectly smooth, yet he kept his eyes down, inspecting it repeatedly. He didn’t light it, nor did he look up for a long time.
Behind him, clean, even snowflakes were drifting down. I suddenly remembered Christmas Eve that year. Regent Street was bustling with people under the Angel Lights, snow falling all around us.
Twenty-seven-year-old Liang Qiezhao had held my hand tightly. He held on until our palms were damp. And even then, he couldn’t bear to let go.
