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Love is Dead in the waiting room.
If there is no death, love is just a deception.
At 5:15 pm, she came to the post office where I work on time to pick up the letter.
I fell in love with this woman 11 years older than me two years ago. I had just turned 17 at the time, and I was still inexplicably fresh and shy about everything in the world. I moved into this building, the landlady took good care of my orphan, and she lived in the opposite building, window to window.
At 6:36 pm, she took out the key from her purse and opened the door.
In fact, I never met her, and to be precise, she never knew that I had met her. If one day I do meet her, what will I do? I asked myself. I entered this post office after graduating from high school. My job was to collect, distribute, and send mail every day, stamping the world's secrets with postmarks, gathering them and then distributing them.
At seven o'clock in the evening, she ate some beet soup and poppy seed cake, got up to paint, dance, so beautiful, so holy.
I used the telescope to spy on her every day, watch her get up, watch her sleep, watch her hug, kiss, and have sex in bed with different boyfriends every day. I always looked at her, looking at her as if I was looking at a distant planet.
At 7:28 p.m., one of her boyfriends came to her as scheduled, and I looked away.
I am not content to watch from afar. I began to forge notices and privately detain letters, just for her to come to the post office for verification and to have a look at her; I started to make anonymous phone calls, but I didn't speak, just to hear her breathing; at 9 o'clock in the evening, I deliberately called gas maintenance The staff came to the door and interrupted her intimacy with her boyfriend; at 6:00 in the morning, I worked as a milkman to knock on the door and take a look at her sleepy-eyed.
I was like air trying to take over her whole life, and I was like air in her eyes.
At 5:15 p.m., when she came to the post office again, I confessed everything to her for two years.
She asked me, "What the hell do you want? Kiss me? Have sex with me? Or go on a trip with me?"
"I...I want to eat ice cream with you."
"You do all this for this, why?"
"Because I love you."
"No, no, no."
She didn't believe in love. Like most people, she can believe in money, material desires, interests, bodies, and even boredom, but not in love.
Perhaps out of pity, she drank coffee with me and invited me to her house.
At 7:28 in the evening, I finally walked into the house that I was very familiar with and completely unfamiliar with. I think of corpses, dead flowers, or hourglasses. These stray imaginations waste me.
She didn't speak. She took my hands and slowly slid them deep down the inner thighs. My twisted and tense hands helped me through the difficult growth.
I couldn't stand the irritation and my crotch got wet.
She said to me coldly, "Well, this is the love you want."
I pushed her away with all my strength and ran out.
I climbed upstairs, put ice on my temples, and burst into tears. It turned out that she could destroy everything in me so easily.
Love is a retreat from sex. The punishment for me is immeasurable.
As a verb, passing is its essence. Love does not stop, and once it is still, it will never be satisfied, complete, and will become a dispensable quantifier. This nature makes love always just a direction, not an address, and when it reaches desire, it will be eaten up.
I hate, I hate all the wrongs and meanness and hypocrisy that people pay for in the name of love.
I killed myself by cutting my wrists in the toilet, with a broken milk bottle standing in the blood.
He didn't show up for more than half a month, and disappeared like water.
I began to learn to look out of his window through the binoculars, looking forward to any possible anonymous call. I closed the curtains, moved the bed, and rejected all my boyfriends for this boy 11 years younger than me. I even went to the post office to inquire, only to find out that he had committed suicide.
The landlady received my visit coldly and informed me that he was hospitalized for treatment. Gosh, from the moment he killed himself I believed I was in love with him.
People who don't believe in love and people who believe in love are one and the same, they peep at each other.
As if love has been desecrated once, it seems extremely pure.
Loving a person is something that people refuse to admit and fear until today. This is human incompetence. And I just want to love and be a good person.
At 7:00 p.m., I entered his room for the first time, and it seemed that he had fallen asleep. I started fiddling with the telescope that peeked at me by myself.
From the other side of the camera I saw myself, just like the me he saw every night, sitting on the floor and whimpering. And this time he leaned over and put his arm around my shoulder.
I half raised my head and asked him: "Are you awake? Is your illness cured?"
He looked at me tenderly: "My illness has been cured, but your illness has just begun."
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