They had been married for exactly 25 years.
To commemorate it, husband Lao Zhang specially booked the seaside hotel where they had spent their honeymoon that year. The room was still an ocean-view room; once the curtains were drawn open, the familiar beach and sunset could be seen. Wife Xiaomei stood by the window and suddenly felt somewhat sentimental.
“Do you remember? 25 years ago, we stayed here for the first time.” She turned around, a smile in her eyes. “That night... when you first saw me standing naked in front of you, what were you thinking?”
Old Zhang was taken aback for a moment, then answered honestly:
“What I’m thinking is—suck your breasts dry and fuck you until you’re dazed.”
Xiaomei was taken aback at first, then blushed and laughed out loud. As she said 'you devil,' she began unbuttoning her clothes, deliberately slowing her movements with a hint of the teasing from back in the day.
“What about now?” she asked him, looking up as she took off her clothes.
Old Zhang looked at the completely different body before him—the once full curves had become slack, the once firm skin bore the marks of time—he was silent for two seconds, then spoke calmly:
"I think what I was thinking at the time... has all come true."
The room fell silent for three seconds.
Xiaomei's movements stopped, her expression slowly shifting from coy to a mix of laughter and tears. She grabbed the nearby pillow and threw it at him:
"You old pervert! After 25 years and you're still this nasty!"
Old Zhang caught the pillow and laughed himself. After laughing, he walked over, pulled his wife into his arms, and added a sentence in her ear:
“But even if it’s realized, tonight... we can still work a little harder.”
The sea breeze blew in through the window, and the two of them laughed together in the familiar room.
In 25 years of marriage, some passion really has been drained dry by time, while some words can still make the other person both angry and amused. And tonight, they decided not to ask anymore whether things had "come true"; instead, they turned off the lights again and slowly drew close to each other, just like 25 years ago.
When the pillow was thrown over, Old Zhang didn't dodge.
He let the soft force land on his shoulder, then naturally seized his wife's wrist and pulled her into his arms. Xiaomei was still being stubborn, muttering “damn old man” and “the older you get the less proper you are,” but her body did not really struggle. The two of them just leaned there by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the sea outside slowly be swallowed by the night.
“What you just said—was it sincere?” Xiaomei’s voice was muffled against his chest.
Old Zhang thought for a moment and answered honestly: 'Half true, half false. The true part is that I really thought that way back then; the false part is... looking at you now, I still think you look good.'
Xiaomei looked up, her eyes slightly moist: 'Smooth talker.'
“Smooth talk is sincere too.” Lao Zhang pinched her waist. “25 years, a watermelon turns into a pear, a pear almost turns into an onion, and I’m still the same, turned into a Christmas tree along with it. Same to you.”
Xiaomei was startled at first, then realized he was teasing her with that old joke from before. She couldn't help feeling both annoyed and amused, and lightly kicked his calf.
The atmosphere in the room gradually shifted from teasing to a warm intimacy.
Xiaomei didn't put her clothes back on. She walked to the bed, sat down, and patted the spot beside her. Lao Zhang walked over but didn't do anything immediately; instead, he first poured two glasses of red wine and handed one to her.
"To 25 years." he said.
"To the part that hasn't been completely drained dry by time yet." Xiaomei took the cup and clinked it lightly against his.
The wine went down their throats, and both of them simultaneously remembered the same room from many years ago. They had just gotten married then, everything was fresh, everything was urgent. Now, the same sea breeze, the same bed, yet there was an added layer of an indescribable ease.
Xiaomei put down her cup and suddenly asked, 'Do you have any regrets?'
“Regret what?”
“Regret that back then I was too hard, sucking out everything that could be sucked out, making everyone who could pass out pass out; now all that’s left is... like this.”
Old Zhang was silent for a few seconds. He reached out and gently tucked her stray hair behind her ear.
“No.” he said earnestly. “If I had to choose again, I’d still choose to do everything I could at the time. At least when I’m old and look back, I won’t feel like I was a coward back then.”
Xiaomei stared at him for a long time, finally narrowing her eyes: 'So greasy you could fry dough sticks with it.'
Even so, she still actively moved closer, burying her face in the crook of his neck. The two of them leaned against each other like that, chatting idly. They talked about the embarrassing things the kids did when they were little, about trivial matters at work, about how many nannies the neighbor had gone through. The topics gradually drifted far away, but neither of them mentioned the word 'continue.'
Until Xiaomei suddenly spoke up: 'Actually, when I was taking off my clothes earlier, my heart was pounding too.'
“Afraid I’ll dislike it?”
“Afraid you’ll be disappointed,” her voice was very soft. “It’s been 25 years, and my body is no longer what it used to be. Yet you’re still replying to me with those old dirty jokes. I don’t even know whether I should be angry or happy.”
Old Zhang hugged her tighter: 'Then be happy. If I can make you both angry and amused, it means I'm not completely boring yet.'
The two were silent for a while longer.
The sound of the waves outside the window became clear. Xiaomei's hand had slipped into his clothes at some point, her palm pressed against his no-longer-flat abdomen, moving slowly. Old Zhang's breath hitched for a moment, but he did not stop her.
“Tonight... do we really have to be like we were 25 years ago?” he asked softly.
Xiaomei didn't answer, just looked up and gave him a very light kiss on the corner of his mouth.
The lights were turned off.
The room fell into darkness again, leaving only the faint moonlight from outside the window and the scent of the sea. The movements were no longer as urgent as in youth, but there was a familiarity and tacit understanding that came with time. Occasionally, a teasing remark would emerge from the darkness—
“Slow down, the Christmas tree can’t take the shaking.”
"You are the onion; the more it’s cut, the more it makes people want to cry."
“Then are you still going to cut it?”
“Tch. Tonight, we have to cut it.”
Laughter and low panting mixed together, eventually drowned out by the sea breeze.
After everything calmed down, the two lay side by side, looking at the ceiling. Xiaomei's fingers were still resting on his arm, drawing circles intermittently.
“Did it work?” she suddenly asked.
Old Zhang turned to look at her: "What?"
"What you were thinking 25 years ago. Draining him dry, making him pass out. Looking back now, does that count as having achieved it?"
Old Zhang thought for a long time before slowly speaking:
"As for the physical side, it's probably about done."
But some things... the longer time goes on, the clearer it becomes that what you originally wanted was actually not just those things.”
Xiaomei turned sideways to face him. In the darkness, her expression was unclear, but you could sense she was smiling.
“Then what do you want now?”
Old Zhang reached out, pulling her back into his embrace, his chin resting on the top of her head, his voice low and steady:
“I want us to still be able to watch the sea together tomorrow morning.
Want to be able to use the same lame joke to make you laugh again in 25 years.
Want... you're still willing to ask me 'what are you thinking now?'.
Xiaomei didn't speak, just buried her face deeper.
The waves crashed against the shore one after another. The room was quiet, so quiet that you could hear each other's heartbeats.
25 years is long enough for much of the passion to have been sucked away; and short enough for them to still lie on the same bed, dig out the dirty jokes from their youth, and laugh as they admit: some came true, and some will never expire.
And that night, neither of them asked again whether it had been 'achieved' or not.
Because the answer is no longer important.
What's important is, after the lights are turned off, both people are still there.
The morning sunlight squeezed through the gap in the curtains, falling on the foot of the bed.
Xiaomei was awakened by the cries of seagulls. She shifted and found herself still loosely encircled by Lao Zhang's arm. The teasing and panting from the night before had settled, leaving only a familiar, lazy soreness.
Old Zhang also woke up. He didn't speak immediately, just buried his face in the crook of her neck, his voice still hoarse from sleep:
"Still here."
Xiao Mei chuckled softly: "Nonsense."
The two lay there a little longer like that. Neither mentioned last night’s talk about “sucking dry” and “making it happen.” The sunlight gradually brightened, illuminating everything in the room clearly—the wrinkled bedsheets, the clothes thrown on the carpet, and the half glass of red wine still by the window.
Xiaomei sat up first, pulling the blanket up to her chest, and gazed out at the sea.
"Will you come again next year?" she asked.
Old Zhang also sat up, hugging her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“Come. As long as you can still walk, come.”
“Then what if I can’t walk anymore?”
“I’ll come in a wheelchair. Then you can push me, and I’ll tell you dirty jokes.”
Xiaomei was amused by him and laughed, gently nudging him back with her elbow. After laughing, she leaned into his embrace and suddenly said seriously:
“Actually, when I heard you say last night that ‘everything has been realized,’ my first thought was to hit you, and then I was a little relieved.”
“Happy about what?”
“Happy that you still dare to tell the truth. And happy that... we can still lie here and turn the truth into a joke.”
Old Zhang didn't reply, just tightened his arms.
Breakfast was settled on the balcony. The sandwiches and coffee delivered by the hotel, paired with the sea breeze, were simple but just right. The two chatted intermittently, talking about the kids' recent work, about the neighbor's dog biting someone again, about whether to learn dancing after retirement.
The topics were fragmented, but there was no awkward silence.
Approaching noon, they packed up their luggage. Before leaving the room, Xiaomei looked back at the bed and suddenly said:
“When we left 25 years ago, I was still wondering when we would be able to come back next time. Now that we're leaving, all I'm thinking is——when we come next time, I hope you're still here.”
Old Zhang held her hand, his palm dry and warm.
“Will be there.”
While the elevator descended, neither of them spoke again. Exiting the hotel's main entrance, the sea breeze wrapped around the sunlight and blew against their faces. Xiao Mei squinted her eyes, looking toward the distant coastline, and suddenly remembered those words from the darkness last night:
What's important is, after the lights are turned off, both people are still there.
She turned her head to look at the person beside her and gently squeezed his hand in return.
The answer was never important.
What's important is, the next time the lights go out, the sound of breathing beside me is still there.
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