I knew nothing of the zither, chess, calligraphy, or painting.
Before I married Yu Huaiqian, the matchmaker asked me what I was good at.
I thought for a long while, then said,
“Picking rice.”
The whole room burst into laughter.
Yu Huaiqian laughed too, but there was no mockery in it.
He said, “Being able to pick rice is quite good. A household still has to eat.”
He was a famously refined young gentleman of the capital.
Everyone thought he should have married that childhood sweetheart of his, the one who could compose lyrics.
But he married me.
After the wedding, we each did our part and supported each other.
I asked him if he ever found me dull.
He placed a chopstickful of greens into my bowl. “Dull is good. I’ve heard enough of all that outside.”
I remembered those words for a very long time.
Until his childhood sweetheart broke off her engagement and returned to the capital.
At the Qushui Banquet, she casually recited a single line from a new lyric.
The wine cup in Yu Huaiqian’s hand froze in midair.
After the banquet ended, he sat in the study and filled an entire page with that one line.
I picked up the paper and looked at him. He immediately reached out to snatch it away.
“Don’t look.”
I asked, “Is it so good that I can’t see it?”
He was silent for a moment, then his voice lowered.
“You wouldn’t understand anyway. Why insist on asking?”
