When Yin Zheng first met Meng Jing, she was a dazzling dancer with hordes of suitors after her, and he was just one among many. He waited many years till she finally agreed to marry him, but even after that, he still felt like just another suitor who had to keep trying to please her. In order to fund the lifestyle she wanted, Yin Zheng was forced to constantly travel abroad to give lectures, and serve as a consultant for cultural agencies he despised. He told me all this another afternoon, looking tormented. He always had to accompany her to various parties, he said, getting drunk with a bunch of people he didn’t know, dancing in crowded rooms. She thought that would bring him inspiration. Ridiculous. Then Yin Zheng asked me, Do you know an American author called Fitzgerald? I shook my head. He said, Meng Jing is like Fitzgerald’s wife, she has an urge to destroy her husband.

I asked what happened to Fitzgerald in the end, and Yin Zheng said he drank himself to death. I thought of my father and felt sad. Yin Zheng said, I asked my sister if I could use these rooms of hers, so I could have a space of my own. Am I disturbing you by being here? I asked. Not at all, he said. You’re welcome anytime.

I started visiting every Saturday afternoon, and then we’d go for dinner, without Meng Jing. I didn’t ask how he’d explained this to her, but she never called again. We often talked about her, though. He had no one else to complain to—to the outside world they had to play the part of the perfect couple. I asked if he’d thought of leaving her, but he said she wouldn’t be able to go on living without him. Anyway, he said, at my age, I don’t have the energy to fall in love again, or rather, I’m unable to, it’s something you lose as you get older. I said, I think I’ve already lost it. He laughed. Silly girl, he said, how old are you again? I liked when he called me silly girl; it felt tender. In a poem he wrote around that time, he called me “my most special friend.” I didn’t copy it down because I could easily memorize poems then, and thought I’d never forget it. Now, though, I can only remember the opening lines. It probably wasn’t his best work, but the main thing was that he was writing again—he hadn’t managed a single word for over a year before that. Jokingly, he said I was his muse. Some afternoons, he sat at his desk while I lounged on the bed and read, eventually dropping off. As I drowsed, I’d be aware of the scratching of his pen on paper, of his cup leaving and returning to the desk. These sounds protected me, they made me feel safe. Then I’d wake up and find the room full of pale blue light—impossible to say if it was twilight or dawn. If only it were dawn, I’d think, so I wouldn’t have to go back and spend a long night alone.