The city had long since fallen asleep, with only the empty bus arriving right on schedule, just as Meng Ning had predicted.
They boarded and took seats in the second-to-last row, not sitting too closely side by side—only Meng Ning’s jeans lightly brushing against Wen Zenian’s suit pants.
Even on the bus, Wen Zenian maintained her poised elegance, peering out the half-open window.
Meng Ning turned her head in the same direction too, but her gaze didn’t extend beyond the glass. She had seen night scenes like this too many times before. What she hadn’t seen was Wen Zenian’s snowy white profile—skin so fair that faint purple veins showed through—while the city backdrop raced past like a slideshow of grimy oil paintings.
Had Wen Zenian drunk a couple extra glasses while meeting those investors tonight?
A twinge of jealousy stirred in Meng Ning toward the night breeze. She wanted to touch those reddened ear tips as well.
Truth be told, no matter whether Qi Xiao had misspoke that evening, the petty bubbles bubbling up inside her would have driven Meng Ning to stand and seek out Wen Zenian anyway.
The bus was old, its parts rattling and clinking as it went, like the cough of an elderly man in the dead of night.
Yet that heavy, muffled coughing only heightened the stillness of the night. Meng Ning found their surroundings eerily quiet. She and Wen Zenian hadn’t exchanged a single word; between them swirled only the wind.
Wen Zenian made no mention of her birthday, saying only that she was “passing by.”
Meng Ning said nothing of hers, claiming only that she was “out for a walk.”
Now they sat together on the last bus of the night, the tuberose notes of Wen Zenian’s perfume mellowed by the breeze. Suddenly, irritation flared in Meng Ning. It was just a meeting with investors—why wear such an intoxicating scent?
She asked softly, “Want to get off and walk for a bit?”
Wen Zenian didn’t turn to look at her. Instead, with slender white fingers, she tucked a wind-tousled strand of hair behind her ear, revealing her slightly reddened earlobe once more.
“Sure,” Wen Zenian said.
Her tone was enough to flush ears that had never touched alcohol.
Meng Ning couldn’t say why her heart was racing. The bus hadn’t even reached the stop, but she was already on her feet, stepping over the two raised platform steps at the rear and making her way to the back door. She gripped the side-mounted pole for support.
The spring night glowed bright, though the wind retained a lingering bite.
Wen Zenian glanced up, her eyes settling on the young woman who had placed a short distance between them.
She was slender—almost fragile—with features that carried a sharp, detached clarity. Her long, straight black hair was tied back, exposing a graceful nape. A playful gust had tousled a stray lock, fluffing it up to reveal the black mandala tattoo, its beauty elusive and untouchable.
The dim yellow streetlights served as the city’s modest stars, their glow just bright enough to kindle secret desires while veiling them in shadow.
Meng Ning steadied herself with one hand on the pole and glanced back at Wen Zenian. Realizing their eyes had met, she froze for a moment, mustered a faint smile, and quickly looked away.
Half-leaning against the pole as she gazed out the window, that subtle smile lingered on her face.
Her slightly upturned lips seemed to capture the spring breeze, capturing too the bright moon hanging in the night sky.
Wen Zenian shouldered her bag and rose, stepping over the two platform steps to stand just behind Meng Ning.
She took hold of the pole on the other side, and Meng Ning’s nape went taut in an instant.
Swirling around that nape came the wind. The night. The fragrance of tuberose. The willow blossoms unfurling along the roadside. Wen Zenian’s warm breath.
Meng Ning fought the itch and held her position, drawing her gaze from the passing streets to the glass door ahead. Perhaps the glass wasn’t perfectly clean; it served ideally as the backdrop for a painting.
Wen Zenian stood a little behind and to the side, her figure partially shielded by Meng Ning’s. The heels added half a head to her height, and their reflections—profound faces side by side—shone clear in the glass panel set into the bus door.
Another odd thought bubbled up in Meng Ning’s mind.
The last time she and Wen Zenian had shared a cab, the scene had felt like a postcard.
Here on the bus, the sensation returned.
She didn’t even need to picture it. The shadowed glass, divided down the middle, framed their figures perfectly, the city’s scattered lights twinkling in the background. In her eyes, those lights warped into something akin to Van Gogh’s most famous Starry Sky.
No need for further flights of fancy. A slow blink sufficed—her lashes filtering out the stark street details and the occasional night wanderer—like snapping a photo with a hidden camera.
When the bus pulled into the stop, Meng Ning descended first.
Whatever her mood, her movements stayed light and fluid, much like the dolphin people always likened her to at the seaside. After stepping down, she turned back, hands tucked into her hoodie pockets, and waited for Wen Zenian.
Until Wen Zenian called out, “Aren’t you going to help me down? I’m wearing heels.”
Meng Ning ducked her head, a soft laugh escaping her.
Then she lifted her gaze and extended a hand toward Wen Zenian.
Sometimes, on her nocturnal bus wanderings, Meng Ning felt as if the entire city slumbered while she alone stayed awake. It was a magical sensation, the city transformed into her private crystal ball, shrouded in thick black velvet for her eyes only.
But tonight, she gently lifted one corner of that velvet for Wen Zenian—
Welcome, my special guest.
The two walked onward along the old street.
By now, Meng Ning wondered if she had been arrogant after all. Was her secret nightscape beautiful enough? These squat old buildings with their rusty protective bars, the rundown planters by the curb holding long-dead greenery, the river she was leading Wen Zenian toward—did any of it measure up?
Compared to the vistas Wen Zenian had witnessed.
Compared to Prague’s ancient streets aglow with lights, Amsterdam’s spires of ornate churches, San Francisco where the orange-red Golden Gate Bridge spanned the bay, and ultimately, Paris—the world’s enchantingly alluring jewel.
Meng Ning even caught the faint, whiff from the sluggish river.
“Oh,” Wen Zenian said. “There’s a river here.”
She approached it naturally. The night sky was inky black, stars mere brushstrokes; the water, inky too, her thoughts the guiding lines.
Meng Ning trailed behind, watching as one hand rested on the muddy railing. After a moment’s gaze, Wen Zenian turned, half-leaning her lower back against it. She fished out a cigarette but didn’t light it, merely pinching it between her slender fingers. “The night breeze here feels nice.”
She turned her neck ever so slightly, as if weary—three parts languid, three parts offhand—scribing her beauty with effortless abandon.
“Where’s your lighter?” she asked Meng Ning.
Meng Ning’s hand dipped into her pocket. Her fingertips first grazed the gritty texture of the second-hand lighter, then found her own.
She pulled it out and lit Wen Zenian’s cigarette. The spring night wind had softened; Wen Zenian dipped her swan-like neck a touch, her diamond earrings gleaming like stars against the ground. She cupped her palm around the flame—not with winter’s earnestness—but lightly overlaid it on the back of Meng Ning’s hand before drawing away.
That cool minty bite hooked into Meng Ning’s nerves.
Here it came again.
She knew she couldn’t face Wen Zenian with composure. Possessiveness and greed—if they were so easily overcome, they wouldn’t stand as humanity’s shared original sin.
She wanted to confess how much she liked her.
To pour out her reluctance to part.
To discuss the fact that they would soon be separated.
She had to say something, or the thought would coil endlessly in her mind, impossible to dispel. She stepped to Wen Zenian’s side, rested both elbows on the railing, and clasped her overlapping palms loosely—as if peering intently downward.
A weathered wooden sign stood by the riverbank, its sun-bleached surface bearing the irregular red-painted words “No Fishing.” Meng Ning stared at it.
She thought it over and over. Finally, the words took shape on her lips: “Is Paris… very beautiful?”
Wen Zenian, unaware of the thousand twists Meng Ning’s thoughts had taken, turned her head in mild surprise.
It was laughable, really—the first earnest question Meng Ning had posed since their reunion, setting aside the daily banalities.
Wen Zenian turned back and drew on her cigarette. Meng Ning fixed her eyes on the river surface, catching the faint rustle of the other woman’s shirtsleeve. Against her will, her gaze flicked sideways, taking in how the wind had scattered the red from Wen Zenian’s earlobe, leaving it like polished jade.
With the alcohol no longer warming her ears, it welled from her lips instead. Her tone carried a lazy drawl, her posture against the railing far more relaxed than usual. “To be honest, I don’t know how to put it.”
“I’ve visited plenty of cities, but I’m usually stuck in hotels working—or off to other hotels and lounges for meetings. Not much time to truly take in a place.”
“Oh.”
She turned to Meng Ning. “Aren’t you planning a trip? Ever thought about Paris?”
Meng Ning shook her head with a smile. “Too expensive. Can’t swing it.”
Wen Zenian curved her lips but said nothing more.
They held the pose like that. One leaning back against the railing, the other facing the water. Meng Ning wondered if it was her imagination or if a trace of gray—quickly scattered by the wind—was Wen Zenian’s cigarette ash drifting her way.
Should she wish Wen Zenian a happy birthday?
It didn’t feel right.
Would anyone remember the birthday of a junior high classmate absent for over a decade—even one you’d been thick as thieves with for the half-year after her transfer?
Wen Zenian finished her cigarette, its perfume-like scent wafting from her, and volunteered little else.
“Shall we head back?” she asked Meng Ning.
“Let’s,” Meng Ning replied.
No buses ran for the return trip, so Meng Ning called a cab.
By then, Wen Zenian finally betrayed her tipsiness, reclining against the seatback with eyes closed.
Meng Ning kept the window shut at first, fearing the air would feel stuffy. Quietly, she cracked it open a sliver.
But as the car picked up speed, the wind turned sharp once more. With Wen Zenian’s alcohol-heightened warmth, Meng Ning worried about a chill, so she raised the window again.
The soft whir of the mechanism vanished into the taxi’s low engine hum.
Meng Ning pulled out her phone for a glance. The screen’s blue glow lit her face in the dim interior.
00:01.
Wen Zenian’s birthday had slipped away just like that.
This time, Wen Zenian didn’t sleep long.
As the cab neared the old building, her eyes fluttered open. “Almost there,” Meng Ning said gently.
“You’re peeking at me.”
“What?” Meng Ning startled.
“Otherwise, how did you notice the instant I woke?”
“…Just a coincidence.” Meng Ning turned silently to peer out the window.
She had endured so many close calls that night, nearly undone by this most ordinary exchange.
