O Chin - Now That It's Over

“Wei Xiang, you know I love you, right?” Ai Ling looked into the night sky, hesitant to face him.

“Of course I know. Why would you say that? Okay, now I’m officially worried. What’s going on in that head of yours? Come on, tell me.”

Ai Ling laughed softly, the sound fading into the night.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You sure? You very sure?”

“Yes, nothing’s wrong.”

Standing in the water, Ai Ling stretched her toes and dug her heels into the sand. Craning her face upwards, she closed her eyes, feeling the warm morning sunlight on her skin. The balm of the water and the light felt restorative. She had always loved the sea. When she was eight years old, her parents brought her to East Coast Park for the first time. The noisy rush of the waves as they crashed onto the shore, the broken seashells that lay half-embedded in the wet sand, her headlong dash into the water, the current of fizzy bubbles that moved along the entire length of her body, down her back to her feet. How she had gasped for air, bursting through the surface of the water, yelling for her parents, wanting them to see the great feat she was performing, fighting against the waves and breaking their advance with her might, with the will and strength of her body. Her parents had cheered and clapped, and told her to come back to the shore and not to venture too far. Ai Ling had defied them—she had taken some swimming lessons in school and knew she was a strong swimmer, her swimming coach had told her—and held her head down in the water. Counting the long seconds and fighting the resistance of her body, she finally leapt up and threw her arms into the air, flinging arcs of water from her extended hands. Looking towards the shore, Ai Ling had noticed that her mother was standing so close to the water that the front of her shoes had got wet, a flash of relief breaking across her face. Ai Ling could still remember the calls of her mother then, to come back.

From the chamber of her thoughts, Ai Ling heard an indistinct shout coming from behind her. Glancing back, it took her less than a second to register a young boy standing at the tide line, trying to get her attention, waving his arms and pointing at the horizon. Ai Ling turned to where he was indicating. Far out in the distance, a high wall of water had appeared, quivering like a mirage, dissolving the boundary between the sea and the sky, gaining in height and moving in fast.

Ai Ling tripped over her own feet and fell into the water. She could hear a piercing scream coming from somewhere behind her. She regained her footing and started to run.

When they got back to their hotel room, they sat on the balcony watching the night sky. From the small bag of drinks they had bought at the convenience store next to the hotel, Wei Xiang popped a can of Singha beer and started to drink. The murmur of street sounds rose up to where they were sitting: soft bursts of voices and laughter, the occasional honking of cars, and the deep, almost subterranean beats of music coming from the nearby bars, thumping like a heart under the skin of the night.

When Ai Ling got up to go to bed, Wei Xiang followed. He reached over to turn off the bedside lamp. Shadows stretched long on the ceiling and walls, moving like dark creatures in the slanted blocks of moonlight. When Wei Xiang touched her collarbone with his fingers, Ai Ling felt every part of her rushing to meet the point of contact, her nerves electrified, awakened by a rabid yearning that reached deep into her core, stirring her alive. Wei Xiang traced his fingers down the valley between her breasts and stroked her nipples. Closing her eyes, Ai Ling imagined her body changing into something that was a different version of herself—better, fuller, wilder—and in this new self, she lost all her usual senses. Yet she was not anxious or frightened or fearful; she was beyond all these, floating at the brink of her existence, transformed.

When Wei Xiang entered her, Ai Ling gasped. She held his face close, his breaths landing on her neck, down her shoulders, into her mouth. When she came, she gave in to a dark place that was a void and a death, and in that moment of nothingness, she burnt bright, all aglow.

“I worry about you sometimes. I don’t know what you’re thinking and it scares me.” Wei Xiang had lain down beside her afterwards, and in the dim light, Ai Ling could see his chest rising and falling. She put her hand over his heart, to calm him.

“Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t. I’m here.”

Wei Xiang held Ai Ling’s hand in the dark, squeezing it. Ai Ling breathed in deeply and settled into herself. The night drew itself around them, and they fell into slumber.

Ai Ling barely had time to catch her breath as the boy rushed up to her, grabbing her left hand and tugging her in the direction he wanted to go, to higher ground farther up the beach. Closeup, Ai Ling saw the panic in the boy’s eyes, full of warning. He muttered something without pausing, the rush of heated words escaping from his mouth, incomprehensible to Ai Ling.

“Where?” Ai Ling said. The boy looked confused, his eyebrows hitched up with uncertainty. “I need to get back to my husband.”

Ignoring her words, the boy leant backward and tried to yank Ai Ling away. She shook off his hand, taking a few steps back. The wind had whipped up to a deafening speed, howling in her ears. Shrill, frantic birdcalls chorused madly around them. From somewhere, another shout of alarm.

“No, I need to get back to him.”

The boy dropped his arms to his sides and stared at Ai Ling. For a brief moment, Ai Ling felt as if they were looking at each other through a distorted glass, across a span of shared history.

The boy turned and sprinted up the beach.

Before Ai Ling could utter another word or form a single thought, the huge wave swept onto shore and lifted her into its embrace, carrying her as far as it could, into the heart of the island, before drawing her back into its depths.

The sun dips slowly into the sea, turning the water vermillion, as darkness creeps its way across the tiny island. The wispy tufts of dry grass shiver in the light breeze, bracing themselves for the night. All is calm. The woman remains perfectly still.

The boy steps out of the water and walks up to the woman on the beach. Water drips from the boy’s body onto her back, dotting her shirt with dark splotches. He squats down and puts a hand on the woman’s hair, brushing it gently with his fingers, straightening out the kinks, freeing the tangled ends. He wipes the crusted trails of dried blood from the corners of her mouth, and fills the empty eye socket with sand. Then he places his right hand on her bulging stomach and holds it there, fingers splayed.

Closing his eyes, he listens to the world of sounds coming from inside the woman’s husk of a body. He listens, and beyond the skin and blood and flesh, he finally hears her. He clenches his hand into a fist on the woman’s stomach. He’s here—he will always be here.

And the sea, ever present, surrounding them, raging inside them—teeming, roaring, alive with its own dark appetite.

The boy sits on the sand beside the woman, his body touching hers, and looks out across the water. Together, they regard the silence of the island. The sun—now a sliver—slips below the horizon and disappears into the crepuscular folds of the approaching night.