时间的湾 1-6+gpt 翻译 周末贴个长的

时间的湾
 
一

那一年你十八岁, 在马蹄湾， 那个科罗拉多河转了几乎360度弯的地方。 湛蓝的天空， 见不到一丝云彩， 而马蹄湾的河水比天空还要蓝。 红褐色的峭壁环绕着蜿蜒的河， 在河面上洒下它们苍老的倒影。 站在悬崖边的你， 小心翼翼地前倾着， 低头望着那似乎纹丝不动的河面。 是的， 你清楚的记得， 那时你看不出河水有丁点儿的流动， 那时的你也感觉不到时间的流走。 
 
你登上了马蹄湾景区的最高处， 是人能攀至的最高处。 一块巨大的岩石形成一个约50米高的山丘， 在它的光滑的的斜坡正中， 突兀地拱起一块， 顶部比根基大出很多， 悬空的部分， 略微向上扬着， 对着马蹄湾， 像斜坡上生出一个鹰头， 而鹰嘴斜刺向天空。 你惊讶为何这一块岩石独自在千百年的风蚀中生存下来， 为何风， 还有时间， 会从它的身边绕过。    
 
你有些许失望， 一个和你年纪相仿的女孩已经坐在岩石的鹰嘴上， 每个登上来的人都渴望留影的位置。 她的年纪是你凭着她的发型， 背影， 和衣着猜测的， 也许还有随风飘来的清香。 你站在离她几米远处， 望着她， 希望她能早点离开。 可她的背影吸引着你， 没有移动， 没有声音， 恬静地望着远方， 融入湛蓝的天。 你涌起坐在她身边的冲动， 和她一起， 静静地把时间停住。 
 
朋友在喊你的名字， 你这才想起要赶回拉斯维加斯去看今晚的【披头士的爱】。 朋友指了指腕上的手表， 然后举起相机做出照相的手势。 你只好就地坐下来， 匆匆给朋友的镜头留下一个微笑。  
 
你和朋友快步离开马蹄湾景区， 走向停车场。 你回头一瞥， 女孩不知何时已离开了。 你在过往的人群里搜寻， 深蓝底， 红格子棉衬衣的背影， 和一张恬静纯真的脸， 融入蓝天的女孩该是恬静的， 纯真的。     
 
。。。。。。
 
拖拉的朋友终于把照片寄给了你。 相片里， 你笑得少有的自然。 朋友取景的技术很不错， 湛蓝的天， 红褐色的岩石， 还有那个女孩， 在左侧的背景里。 让你惊讶的是， 那个女孩也正扭过头来， 脸对着镜头。 你隐约看到一张恬静， 纯真的笑脸。    
 
。。。。。。
 
这是你和她的第三次约会， 也是第一次晚餐。 你和前妻二十年的婚姻走到尽头后， 热心的朋友已经给你介绍了十来个。 她是第一个你能前进到第三次约会的。 走出餐馆， 她邀你去她家喝茶， 说这儿离她家很近。 虽然有些意外， 可这盛夏的夜， 8点钟时， 你感觉更像一个暖春的下午， 还是喝茶的好时光。 
 
转过几个街角， 就到了她的家。 夕阳的柔光正拥着乳白色的门廊。 等你在沙发坐下后， 她去厨房泡茶。 你环视着她的家， 一切都简约， 温暖， 每一件家具和摆设都是自由的， 可又和谐的， 驱散了你的拘谨， 就像你和她一起度过的时光。 大多时候， 你只是倾听和注视， 她的声音， 她的眼神， 她的微笑， 给你从未有过的自在和舒缓。 那种感觉在第一次见面时就有了， 在她搅动咖啡后抬起头的一瞬间。 当她和你的目光交汇时， 你仿佛听到了约书亚·贝尔拉着他改编的德彪西的小提琴曲【亚麻色头发的少女】， 虽然你眼前是乌黑的长发， 乌黑的双眼。 你听到自己的心跳缓下来， 听到她说 “我年轻时很喜欢旅行， 随着乐团去看不同的风景。 现在却喜欢呆在家里， 教不同的学生”。 你才留意到她的指甲修剪的非常短, 没有涂指甲油， 只有自然的润泽。 第二次见面时， 你谈到了自己失败的婚姻。 她没有言语， 只是伸出左手， 轻柔地摩挲着你的手背。 你能感到她指尖的茧。 然而就是那微微粗糙的茧轻轻地揉搓着你的手背， 产生了微妙的温暖， 抚去了你所有的失落和伤感。        
 
收回目光， 你发现沙发旁的角桌上放着一个红褐色的相框, 相框里左半边嵌着一首诗， 右半边是一幅相片。 诗是用炭笔手写在乳黄色的纸上， 虽是流畅的行书， 却透着温柔和细腻。 你读到：   
 
时间的湾
 
我逆着光阴的河
去拾回散落的记忆
浑浊还是清澈
都来自我的心底
不知哪里来的风
把我吹进了河湾
晨雾迷住了我的乌篷
和双眼
风中飘着的春纱
带来我熟悉的温暖
而河畔摇曳的鸢尾花
让我又听见你的欢颜
 
而右半边的相片里， 蓝天下， 一块昂起的像鹰头的岩石， 而那鹰的嘴， 扬起， 刺向蓝天。 相片的中央是一个少女坐在鹰嘴上， 双手扶在岩石的边缘， 双脚荡在蓝天里。 她正扭过头来， 对着镜头灿烂地笑着。 右侧的背景里， 一个大男孩， 戴着一副太阳镜， 坐在岩石中央， 也灿烂地笑着。 你看到太阳镜后一双清澈， 充满期盼的眼睛。

 

二
 
“昨晚我做了一个梦， 很长的梦。 在梦里， 我回到了十八岁的时候， 我错过了你， 然后， 。。。。。”
 
“也许我们该像你梦里一样的。”
 
即将成为禾前妻的宛打断了禾， 递给他黑色的圆珠笔。
 
“也许。”
 
禾重复了一遍， 在离婚协议上签下名字， 收好自己的一份， 伸出双臂， 悬在空中， 而宛一动不动地立着。 禾上前一步， 坚定地把宛揽入怀里。
 
“你保重！”
 
禾提起旅行包， 有些吃力地， 因为里面塞满抹不去的记忆， 走出门， 消失在刺眼的阳光里。   
 
 
三
 
正午的烈日下， 你在停车场里张望来往的人流， 固执地守着一线希望。 幸运的你望见了她，在一辆绿色的甲壳虫旁， 她和她的朋友正在打开车门。 没错的， 深蓝底， 红格子棉衬衣的背影， 正要进到驾驶座。 
 
“你好！ 我叫禾。 我有一张你的相片想送给你。”
 
你对着背影大声说。 她转过头来， 清澈的眼睛让你心虚。 你赶紧拿出 Polaroid 相片给她看。 
 
“刚刚我也在那块岩石上， 朋友给我照相时， 把你照在里面了。 我想把它复制一份， 送给你。 ”
 
她低下头， 盯着照片一会儿。 湛蓝的天， 红褐色的岩石， 她在左侧的背景里， 坐在岩石的尖端， 正扭过头来， 灿烂地笑着。 她抬起头， 看穿了你的把戏。
 
“你真逗， 我只是在你的背景里。 下面是问我要地址和电话号码了吗？ ”      
 
“不， 不是这个意思！” 
 
你红着脸否认， 递给她写着你电话号码和电子邮箱的马蹄湾导游图。 
 
“这是我的联系方式。 你想要照片时， 电话或电邮都可以。”
 
她迟疑了片刻， 收下来。
 
“好吧， 再见。 旅途愉快！”
 
“谢谢， 你也同样！”
 
。。。。。。
 
一个月后， 你收到她发来的电邮， 还附有一张照片。 蓝天下， 一块昂起的像鹰头的岩石， 而那鹰的嘴， 扬起， 刺向蓝天。 相片的中央是一个少女坐在鹰嘴上， 双手扶在岩石的边缘， 双脚荡在蓝天里。 她正扭过头来， 对着镜头灿烂地笑着。 右侧的背景里， 一个大男孩， 戴着一副太阳镜， 坐在岩石中央， 也灿烂地笑着。
 
你记得她电邮里的这句话。
 
“你也在我的背景里！”

 

四 
 
在新租的公寓里， 坐在床边， 禾看着相片中央的宛和右侧背景里的自己， 嵌在红褐色的相框的右半边。 相框的左半边嵌着一首诗。 诗是宛用炭笔手写在乳黄色的纸上， 虽是流畅的行书， 却透着温柔和细腻。  
 
时间的湾
 
我逆着光阴的河
去拾回散落的记忆
浑浊还是清澈
都来自我的心底
不知哪里来的风
把我吹进了河湾
晨雾迷住了我的乌篷
和双眼
风中飘着的春纱
带来我熟悉的温暖
而河畔摇曳的鸢尾花
让我又听见你的欢颜
 
每当来访的朋友们问起他俩的爱情故事， 宛总是拿这张合影来讲解两人的缘份。 不知过了多久， 禾才把相框放在床边的床头柜上， 继续清理着旅行包里的物品。 算不上清理， 他只是一件件取出来， 摊开在床的右半边， 左半边足够他睡觉用的了。 这样重复着， 直到他取出一张 CD ,  “ The Best of Simon & Garfunkel ” 。 分割物品的时候， 是宛把这个 CD 放进他的旅行包的。 禾产生了想听的冲动， 才意识到他的新家没有 CD 播放器。 他无法压下这个念头， 于是拿出手机， 去 Amazon Music 寻找。 幸运的很， 还真有， 包括在他的 Amazon Prime 会员里。 禾坐下来， 在床边， 这是公寓里除了地板以外， 唯一能坐的地方。 他把手机音量调到最大， 点击了 “ The Best of Simon & Garfunkel ” 专辑。 他闭上眼睛， 沉入歌声里。 当第四首歌， “悬摆着的对话” 响起时， 禾睁开眼， 凝视着透过百叶窗的一缕缕阳光， 和阳光里舞动的尘埃。            
 
悬摆着的对话
 
一幅水彩静物
画着已近黄昏的下午 
阳光透过窗帘的蕾丝
房里洒满阴影
我们坐下喝着咖啡
蜷缩在我们的淡漠里， 就像岸上的贝壳
你听到海洋的咆哮
在悬摆着的对话里
在肤浅的叹息里
我们生活的界限
 
你读着艾米莉迪金森
我读着罗伯特弗罗斯特
用书签标记读到的地方
那也测量着我们的失落
就像一首糟糕的诗
在切分的节奏里
我们是无律的诗节
是无韵的对句
被悬摆着的对话
和肤浅的叹息
我们生活的界限
 
是的， 我们讲着需要关注的事
说着必须说出的话
“分析值得吗？”
“戏剧真地死了吗？”
而房间怎么就柔缓地褪去
而我只吻到你的影子， 触不到你的手
此刻陌生的你
丢失在悬摆着的对话里
在肤浅的叹息里
在我们生活的界限里
 
随着歌声禾回忆着， 是否有过这样的一个下午， 宛坐在他的对面， 一起喝着咖啡， 或是茶。 有过， 很多个这样的下午， 只是禾的杯子里从开始的拿铁变成了黑咖啡， 而宛的从绿茶过渡到了红茶。 

 
五
 
你面前是一杯拿铁， 还有她， 和她的咖啡， 在西雅图 Pike Place 里的一家咖啡馆， 叫 Storyville 。 十几分钟前， 你还排在第一家 Starbucks 门前的长长的队里。 你随着队伍不耐烦地挪着步子， 后悔你做下的到此一游的决定。 你无聊地打量着街上的行人， 好在是夏天， 可看的很多。 一个手捧着一束 pink tiger lilly 的女孩从你身边走过， 她的背影让你你莫名其妙地觉得眼熟。 女孩走出去十米远了你才想起是她。 你冲了过去， 追上她。
 
“对不起， 你好。 还认得我吗？”
 
她疑惑地看着他。
 
“我在你相片的背景里。 在马蹄湾。 想起来了吗？”
 
“真的是你？！ 太巧了。”
 
她笑起来， 和相片里的一样。 你问她。
 
“你也来西雅图玩？” 
 
“我在这生活。 你来旅游的？”
 
“是的， 刚刚在 Starbucks 排队， 看到你走过， 就追了过来。”
 
“我来买花会朋友。 正好还有些时间， 带你去个远比 Starbucks 好的咖啡屋吧， 走路只要几分钟， 我和朋友约好半个小时后在那见面。”
 
“那太好了， 谢谢， 我正要放弃了。” 
 
。。。。。
 
你看到她往咖啡里加了两袋糖， 和几乎要满出来的牛奶， 然后低下头小心翼翼地搅匀。 你直直地盯着她在搅动的手, 和咖啡表面优雅美丽的漩涡。 当她抬起头， 目光和你的交汇时， 你仿佛听到约书亚·贝尔拉着他改编的德彪西的小提琴曲【亚麻色头发的少女】， 虽然你眼前是乌黑的长发， 乌黑的双眼。 你听到她解释。
 
“我通常喝绿茶， 不喝咖啡的， 太苦。” 
 
“哦!”
 
你努力想说出幽默又高深的评论， 却只挤出一个平淡的惊叹词。 你的心跳快起来， 逼得你躲开她的眼睛， 目光停在她拢着咖啡杯的双手。 你留意到她的指甲修剪的非常短, 没涂指甲油， 只有自然的润泽。

六
 
禾再次遇见宛， 是两年后， 在他时常光顾的咖啡店里。 自从搬回到新奥尔良， 他就喜欢上了这间离家不远的小咖啡店。 店子里正飘着一首老歌， 禾怔怔地听着， 竟不由自主地在漆已斑驳的咖啡桌上搜寻起烟灰缸。         
 
Rain drops in our coffee
 
We bid farewell on a rainy day,
at Cafe de la Rotonde we frequent.
Underneath one umbrella we gaze at the ashtray,
and see through its shiny surface bent and dent.
A moment we are flooded with words to say,
but our tongues fail us motionless and silent.
Upon a gust rain goes sideway,
into our cold coffee it descends.
So we finish our coffee in the rain,  
and taste warm salty bitter grains.
 
歌手反复地唱着结尾两句。 
 
So we finish our coffee in the rain,  
and taste warm salty bitter grains.
 
禾侧头望了望穿外， 真地不知何时下起了雨。 雨滴大而且急， 溅起水花， 催促着躲雨的行人。 一阵风掠过， 雨滴嗒嗒地敲着禾眼前的玻璃窗。 密集的雨点间禾看到了正小跑着的宛。 禾本能地一边用力敲着窗， 一边喊。 
 
“宛！ 宛！ 宛！” 
 
显然宛没有听到， 飞快地掠过。 禾只有一个念头， 追上宛。 他刚冲到门口， 就呆住了， 推开门迎面而来的是宛， 雨滴缀满了她乌黑的发丝， 晶莹透亮。 时间静止着， 只有雨滴顺着宛的发丝无声地流淌， 滴滴答答溅落在木板地上。
 
“Excuse me!”
 
是被宛挡在门外的人。 宛连忙闪到一边。  
 
“坐下来喝杯咖啡好吗？ 或者茶？”
 
禾伸出手臂， 揽住宛的肩膀， 一起走到他刚起身离去的咖啡桌， 他的咖啡还在。  
 
禾再又点了一杯拿铁， 宛点了一杯咖啡。 禾看到宛往咖啡里加了两袋糖， 和几乎要满出来的牛奶， 然后低下头小心翼翼地搅拌着。
 
“我通常喝绿茶， 不喝咖啡的， 太苦。” 
 
“哦!”
 
禾会意地回答。 这时一束穿透云层的阳光洒在了两人之间的咖啡桌上。 这夏日傍晚的雨终不长久。   
 
“到我家喝茶好吗？ 我这两年一个人， 倒学会了一点茶道。”
 
转过几个街角， 就到了禾的家。 夕阳的柔光正拥着乳白色的门廊。宛在沙发坐下后， 禾去厨房准备泡茶的器具。 宛环视着禾的家， 一切都简约， 温暖， 每一件家具和摆设都是自由的， 可又和谐的， 就像和禾一起失去的时光。
 
收回目光， 宛发现沙发旁的角桌上放着一个红褐色的相框, 相框里左半边嵌着一首诗， 右半边是一幅相片。 诗是宛用炭笔手写在乳黄色的纸上， 虽是流畅的行书， 却透着温柔和细腻。   
 
时间的湾
 
我逆着光阴的河
去拾回散落的记忆
浑浊还是清澈
都来自我的心底
不知哪里来的风
把我吹进了河湾
晨雾迷住了我的乌篷
和双眼
风中飘着的春纱
带来我熟悉的温暖
而河畔摇曳的鸢尾花
让我又听见你的欢颜
 
而右半边的相片里， 蓝天下， 一块昂起的像鹰头的岩石， 而那鹰的嘴， 扬起， 刺向蓝天。 相片的中央是宛， 双手扶在岩石的边缘， 双脚荡在蓝天里。 宛正扭过头来， 对着镜头灿烂地笑着。 右侧的背景里， 禾戴着一副太阳镜， 坐在岩石中央， 也灿烂地笑着。

 

gpt

In that year, you were eighteen years old, at Horseshoe Bend, where the Colorado River makes an almost 360-degree turn. The sky was deep blue, without a hint of clouds, and the river at Horseshoe Bend was even bluer than the sky. Red-brown cliffs surrounded the winding river, casting their ancient reflections on the water's surface. Standing on the edge of the cliff, you leaned forward cautiously, looking down at the seemingly motionless river. Yes, you vividly remember that at that time, you couldn't perceive any movement in the river, and time seemed to stand still for you.

You ascended to the highest point of the Horseshoe Bend scenic area, the highest point accessible to humans. A massive rock formed a hill about 50 meters high, with a smooth slope and a protruding part in the middle, much larger at the top than at the base. The suspended portion slightly tilted upward, resembling an eagle's head emerging from the slope, with the eagle's beak piercing towards the sky. You were surprised at why this rock had survived alone through centuries of erosion, why the wind, and time, would pass by it.

There was a slight disappointment; a girl of your age had already sat on the eagle's beak, a coveted spot for everyone visiting. You could only guess her age based on her hairstyle, figure, and clothing, maybe even the fragrance carried by the wind. Standing a few meters away from her, you watched, hoping she would leave soon. However, her silhouette captivated you; she didn't move, didn't make a sound, just serenely gazing into the distance, blending into the azure sky. An impulse surged within you to join her, to quietly freeze time together.

Friends called your name, reminding you to hurry back to Las Vegas to see "Love" by the Beatles tonight. A friend pointed to the watch on their wrist, then raised a camera to signal for a photo. You reluctantly sat down and quickly left Horseshoe Bend with your friends, heading towards the parking lot. Glancing back, you noticed the girl had left at some point. Amidst the passing crowd, you searched for the girl with the calm and innocent face, blending into the blue sky.

...

Finally, your dragging friend sent you the photos. In the picture, you were smiling naturally, a rare sight. Your friend's photography skills were impressive, capturing the deep blue sky, the red-brown rocks, and the girl on the left side of the frame. What surprised you was that the girl had turned her head towards the camera. You vaguely saw a serene, innocent smiling face.

...

This was your third date with her, also the first dinner. After a twenty-year marriage with your ex-wife came to an end, eager friends had introduced you to about ten potential matches. She was the first one you progressed to a third date with. After leaving the restaurant, she invited you to her place for tea, saying it was very close. Although somewhat unexpected, on this warm summer night at 8 o'clock, it felt more like a cozy afternoon for tea.

Turning a few street corners, you arrived at her house. The soft light of the setting sun embraced the milky white porch. After sitting on the sofa, she went to the kitchen to make tea. You surveyed her home—simple, warm, each piece of furniture and decoration free yet harmonious, dispelling any awkwardness, much like the time you spent together. Most of the time, you just listened and observed—her voice, her gaze, her smile, giving you an unprecedented sense of ease and tranquility. That feeling had emerged from the first meeting, in the moment she looked up after stirring the coffee. When her gaze met yours, you almost heard Joshua Bell playing his adaptation of Debussy's "The Girl with the Flaxen Hair," even though before you was a girl with jet-black hair and eyes. You felt your heartbeat slowing down, hearing her say, "I used to love traveling when I was young, following the orchestra to see different sceneries. Now, I prefer staying at home, teaching different students." It was then that you noticed her nails were trimmed very short, no nail polish, just a natural sheen. On the second meeting, you talked about your failed marriage. She didn't say anything; she just extended her left hand, gently caressing the back of yours. You could feel the calluses on her fingertips. Yet, it was that slight roughness that gently rubbed against the back of your hand, creating a subtle warmth, wiping away all your sorrow and sadness.

Redirecting your gaze, you noticed a red-brown frame on the side table beside the sofa, containing a poem on the left half and a photo on the right. The poem, written with charcoal on pale yellow paper in a flowing script, exuded gentleness and delicacy. You read:

The Bay of Time

I go against the river of time
To retrieve scattered memories
Muddy or clear
All come from the depths of my heart
I don't know where the wind comes from
It blows me into the bay of time
Morning mist blurs my black umbrella
And my eyes
In the wind floats the spring gauze
Bringing me familiar warmth
While the irises swaying by the river
Let me hear your joyous laughter again

In the right half of the frame, under a blue sky, a rock lifted like an eagle's head, and the eagle's beak pointed towards the sky. In the center of the photo, a girl sat on the eagle's beak, hands resting on the edge of the rock, feet dangling in the blue sky. She turned her head towards the camera, smiling brightly. On the right side of the background, a big boy wearing sunglasses sat in the middle of the rock, also smiling radiantly. You saw a pair of clear, expectant eyes behind the sunglasses.

 

Last night, I had a long dream. In the dream, I went back to when I was eighteen, and I missed you. Then...

"Perhaps we should be like in your dream."

Wan, who was about to become He's ex-wife, interrupted He and handed him a black ballpoint pen.

"Maybe."

He repeated, signing his name on the divorce agreement, taking his copy, extending his arms, hanging in the air, while Wan stood still. He took a step forward, firmly embracing Wan.

"Take care!"

He lifted his travel bag, struggling a bit because it was filled with indelible memories, walked out the door, and disappeared into the glaring sunlight.

Under the noon sun, you scanned the people coming and going in the parking lot, stubbornly holding on to a glimmer of hope. Luckily, you spotted her next to a green Beetle; she and her friend were opening the car door. Yes, deep blue background, red checkered cotton shirt, about to get into the driver's seat.

"Hello! I'm He. I have a photo of you that I want to give you."

You shouted loudly at her back. She turned around, clear eyes making you feel uneasy. You quickly took out a Polaroid photo to show her.

"Just now, when my friend took a photo of me on that rock, you ended up in it. I want to make a copy and give it to you."

She lowered her head, staring at the photo for a moment. A deep blue sky, reddish-brown rocks, she in the left background, sitting on the edge of the rock, turning her head with a brilliant smile. She looked up, seeing through your trick.

"You're funny. I'm just in your background. Do you want my address and phone number below?"

"No, that's not what I meant!"

You blushed and denied, handing her a Horseshoe Bay tour guide map with your phone number and email written on it.

"These are my contact details. When you want the photo, you can call or email."

She hesitated for a moment before accepting it.

"Okay, goodbye. Have a pleasant journey!"

"Thank you, you too!"

...

A month later, you received an email from her, along with a photo. Under the blue sky, a raised rock shaped like an eagle's head, and the eagle's beak raised, piercing the blue sky. In the center of the photo was a girl sitting on the eagle's beak, hands resting on the edge of the rock, feet dangling in the blue sky. She turned her head, smiling brightly at the camera. On the right side of the background, a big boy wearing sunglasses sat in the middle of the rock, also smiling brightly.

You remembered the sentence in her email.

"You are also in my background!"

In the newly rented apartment, sitting on the edge of the bed, He looked at the central figure of Wan in the photo and himself in the right background, embedded in the right half of the reddish-brown frame. The left half of the frame contained a poem. Wan wrote it with charcoal on pale yellow paper, fluent cursive exuding gentleness and delicacy.

Bay of Time

I go against the river of time
To pick up scattered memories
Whether muddy or clear
All come from the depths of my heart
I don't know where the wind comes from
Blowing me into the bay of time
The morning mist obscures my black umbrella
And my eyes
In the wind, fluttering spring yarn
Brings the warmth I'm familiar with
And the irises swaying by the riverbank
Let me hear your joyful laughter again

Whenever friends ask about their love story, Wan always uses this photo to explain their fate. It took He quite some time to put the frame on the bedside table, continuing to clean the items in the travel bag. It wasn't really cleaning; he just took them out one by one, spreading them on the right side of the bed, leaving the left side enough for him to sleep on. He repeated this until he took out a CD, "The Best of Simon & Garfunkel." It was Wan who put this CD in his travel bag. He felt the urge to listen and realized that his new home didn't have a CD player. Unable to suppress this thought, he took out his phone and went to Amazon Music to find it. Fortunately, it was available, including in his Amazon Prime membership. He sat down by the bed, the only place to sit in the apartment besides the floor. He turned up the volume on his phone, clicked on "The Best of Simon & Garfunkel" album, closed his eyes, and sank into the music. When the fourth song, "The Dangling Conversation," started playing, He opened his eyes, staring at the sunlight filtering through the blinds and the dust dancing in the sunlight.

The Dangling Conversation

A watercolor still life
Painting a late afternoon near dusk
Sunlight through the lace of the curtains
Casting shadows in the room
We sit down drinking coffee
Curling up in our indifference, like shells on the shore
You hear the roar of the ocean
In the dangling conversation
In shallow sighs
The boundaries of our lives

You read Emily Dickinson
I read Robert Frost
Marking our places with bookmarks
That also measure our losses
Like a bad poem
In the segmented rhythm
We are irregular stanzas
Unrhymed couplets
In the dangling conversation
And shallow sighs
The boundaries of our lives

Yes, we talk about things that need attention
Speak the words that must be spoken
"Is analysis worth it?"
"Is drama really dead?"
And how the room gently fades away
And I only kiss your shadow, unable to touch your hand
The stranger you are at this moment
Lost in the dangling conversation
In shallow sighs
In the boundaries of our lives

As the song played, He recalled whether there had been such an afternoon, Wan sitting across from him, drinking coffee or tea together. There had been many such afternoons, only He's cup had transitioned from latte to black coffee, and Wan's from green tea to black tea.

 

In front of you is a latte, along with her and her coffee, in a café called Storyville in Pike Place, Seattle. Just a few minutes ago, you were in a long line in front of the first Starbucks. Impatiently shuffling along with the queue, you regret the decision to make this touristy stop. Bored, you gaze at the pedestrians on the street, thankfully it's summer, and there's plenty to see. A girl holding a bouquet of pink tiger lilies walks past you, her silhouette strangely familiar. It takes you ten meters to realize it's her. You rush over and catch up with her.

"Excuse me, hello. Do you recognize me?"

She looks at him with confusion.

"I was in the background of your photo. At Horseshoe Bay. Remember?"

"Is it really you?! What a coincidence."

She smiles, just like in the photo. You ask her,

"Are you here in Seattle for a visit?"

"I live here. Are you here as a tourist?"

"Yes, just stood in line at Starbucks and saw you walk by, so I followed."

"I came to buy flowers for a friend. Luckily, I have some time. Let me take you to a coffee shop much better than Starbucks, just a few minutes' walk away. I'm meeting my friend there in half an hour."

"That's great, thank you. I was about to give up."

...

You see her adding two sugar packets and almost overflowing milk into her coffee, then carefully stirring. You stare straight at her stirring hand and the elegant and beautiful swirls on the coffee surface. When she looks up, meeting your gaze, you hear Joshua Bell playing his adapted version of Debussy's violin piece "The Girl with Flaxen Hair," although the girl in front of you has dark hair and eyes. You hear her explain,

"I usually drink green tea, not coffee. It's too bitter."

"Oh!"

You try to come up with a humorous and profound comment but only manage a flat exclamation. Your heartbeat quickens, forcing you to avoid her eyes, focusing on her hands holding the coffee cup. You notice her nails are trimmed very short, no nail polish, just a natural sheen.

You meet Wan again two years later, in a coffee shop he often frequents. Since moving back to New Orleans, he has developed a liking for this nearby small café. A nostalgic song is playing in the shop, and Wan absentmindedly listens, involuntarily searching for an ashtray on the worn coffee table.

Rain drops in our coffee

We bid farewell on a rainy day,
at Cafe de la Rotonde we frequent.
Underneath one umbrella we gaze at the ashtray,
and see through its shiny surface bent and dent.
A moment we are flooded with words to say,
but our tongues fail us motionless and silent.
Upon a gust rain goes sideway,
into our cold coffee it descends.
So we finish our coffee in the rain,
and taste warm salty bitter grains.

The singer repeats the last two lines.

So we finish our coffee in the rain,
and taste warm salty bitter grains.

Wan looks out the window and realizes it's raining. The raindrops are large and fast, splashing and urging pedestrians to seek shelter. A gust of wind passes, and raindrops tap on the glass window in front of Wan. Amidst the dense raindrops, Wan sees Wan running. Wan instinctively pounds on the window and shouts,

"Wan! Wan! Wan!"

Apparently, Wan didn't hear, swiftly passing by. Wan has only one thought, catch up with Wan. He rushes to the door, but freezes as he pushes it open. Wan is coming towards him, raindrops decorating her dark hair, glistening. Time stands still, only the sound of raindrops silently flowing down her hair, dropping on the wooden floor.

"Excuse me!"

Someone blocked by Wan. Wan quickly steps aside.

"Sit down and have a cup of coffee, or tea?"

Wan reaches out, embraces Wan's shoulder, and walks to the coffee table he just left; his coffee is still there.

Wan orders another latte, and Wan orders a coffee. Wan sees Wan adding two sugar packets and almost overflowing milk, then carefully stirring.

"I usually drink green tea, not coffee. It's too bitter."

"Oh!"

Wan replies understandingly. At this moment, a beam of sunlight pierces through the clouds, illuminating the coffee table between the two. The summer evening rain doesn't last long.

"Would you like to come to my place for tea? I've learned a bit of tea ceremony in the past two years living alone."

Turning a few corners, they arrive at Wan's home. The soft light of the setting sun embraces the milky-white porch. After Wan sits on the sofa, Wan goes to the kitchen to prepare the tea utensils. Wan surveys Wan's home; everything is simple, warm, each piece of furniture and decoration is free yet harmonious, just like the lost time with Wan.

Taking back his gaze, Wan notices a reddish-brown photo frame on the side table near the sofa. The left half of the frame is embedded with a poem, and the right half contains a photo. The poem, written by Wan in charcoal on pale yellow paper, flows in fluent cursive, exuding gentleness and delicacy.

Bay of Time

I go against the river of time
to retrieve scattered memories
whether muddy or clear
all come from the depths of my heart
don't know where the wind came from
it blew me into the bay of time
morning mist obscures my straw hat
and my eyes
in the wind, the spring gauze flutters
bringing familiar warmth
while the irises swaying by the river
let me hear your laughter again

In the right half of the photo, under the blue sky, a rock with a raised eagle-like head, the beak pointing towards the sky. In the center of the photo is Wan, hands resting on the edge of the rock, feet swinging in the blue sky. Wan is turning her head towards the camera, smiling brightly. On the right side of the background, Wan wears sunglasses, sitting in the center of the rock, also smiling brightly.