银河公园
我和黑子成大字型躺在坡上。他盯着头顶树枝的轮廓，问道，抽烟吗。我点头。于是他转身去包里拿烟，抽出后侧身用手肘撑着点火，眯眼吸了两口后向后一靠，慢慢地递给我。
“像是抽事后烟。”
九月江边的风开始变凉，我不喜欢我们之间的距离。于是我抽了两口将烟拿起，向他的方向移了移，黑子凑过来张嘴叼住，顺势将手绕过我的头顶，落在我的左肩上。“有天为被地为床的感觉。”我说着，将左手移到头顶，悄悄放到了他的手边。黑子没吭声，只是轻轻将我的手拉着。我们盯着天上的星星发呆，公园很安静。我想说话，可不知道说什么。
“机票买了吗。”
“后天飞，当然买了。”
“我说下个月回来的机票。”
我拿肩膀轻轻怼了他一下，“你又这样。”
他轻轻摸着我的手，又开始看天上的星星。
“下个月什么时候回来。”
”下年。”
”下月。”
”你给我买机票我便回来。”
黑子指了指脑袋说，”用点脑子，想想办法遣返什么的。”
我向头顶他的胳膊打去。黑子不计较，他就要看我佯装生气。我敲他的手，任由两根指头躺他手心。
他紧紧捏了一下我的手。
我也捏了下表示回应。
黑子说着一些鸡毛蒜皮，但我似乎只能听到头顶树叶的沙沙声。我没打断他，听黑子讲话的时间不多了。我想问他很多事。比如为什么封控三个月结束后第一个来找我，为什么翻墙后只给我打电话，为什么那些次酒后抱我那样紧，为什么隔着所有人只信任对我撒娇。可是为什么，为什么上次交合后便不敢迈步。他的喜欢只是在我坦白后避免尴尬吗，他到底有没有在我喜欢他的时候喜欢我。
江边没有了前两天台风时那股子往上返的腥臭。”好闻。” 我转头埋在草里，换了个姿势，掩盖心中翻腾的情绪。
黑子说等会，好像有保安。
我面对着草地，草新修剪完，面上还浮着些残留的草茬。扎脸，我说想转身。可他说保安还在栏杆上趴着。我只好以身体朝黑子头朝保安的别扭姿势保持原状。脸下的草茬扎得我麻麻的，我催他问，转过去了没有。他说没有，好像没动，再撑一会儿。
我说，“应该把后脑勺露过去。头发是黑的。”
“再坚持一小会儿。”
“不太舒服。”
“现在可以，转过来吧。”
我花了十秒时间将脸转向正冲草茬的方向，然后再从上方扫过滑进黑子的臂弯里。他笑了，说看来没看到。
也许是冷了，也许心有余悸，也许觉得抱的紧些可以躲避保安的视线。他摸着我的头发，摩擦着，在想什么。留恋了一会，见保安走远，黑子想好了似的，坐起来看我。以为他起身撒尿，我便抬头看他。看到他转身遮住了头顶树叶的轮廓，顿了一秒后，翻下身来。
熟悉的触感再次融化我的身体，我脑子一沉，沉得像要陷进身下的草地。
情绪牵着欲望，践踏着过往。过时的埋怨与即将物是人非的不舍在粗重的呼吸声中宣泄而出，合着思念，在空旷山坡上安静又激烈地交替质问。情欲在树叶哗哗的夜空中回荡。黑子沿着我的耳根和脖子低声喘气，过了一会，他温柔地啄着我的脖颈。我喘着气，摩擦着他肌肉的轮廓。他的身体，我无数次穿过酒桌想要拥抱的身体。
“别，姨妈。”
保安还在远方转着。而这个四下漆黑，连翻身都沙沙作响的夜晚用她最响亮的方式，挥舞着霎时的迷人，让人不自觉要靠近尽头的真实。再近些是不是能永生？那片草地的声响总是坚毅地挡在我与尽头之间，之后每每离尽头的真实更近时她便轻轻卷起头顶的那片树叶。草地还会扎吗，保安还转吗？尽头还会在吗？那晚踌躇的每一秒我也听到了她温柔的警告，可怀着对转瞬即逝的追赶，我还是凑上了前。
那警告不刺耳，只是回声很大。年少的我不知道靠近尽头是危险的想法，不知道窥探尽头后眼里的枷锁和噬人的虚空。只想着那夜长久。
那夜确实长久。只是没想那夜之后，树上没树叶，草地只扎人。
Heizi and I lay sprawled on the slope, arms and legs stretched out like the careless shapes of stars. The grass was cool beneath us, damp from the evening dew, prickling faintly against the skin. He stared at the silhouette of the branches above, jagged outlines etched into the sky. “Want a smoke?” he asked.
I nodded.
He turned and reached into his bag, pulled one out, propped himself up on his elbow to light it. He squinted, took two slow drags, then leaned back and passed it to me.
“Feels like a post-something cigarette.”
The breeze by the river was turning cold in September. I didn’t like the space between us. I took two puffs, then raised the cigarette and shifted slightly in his direction.
Heizi leaned over, took it into his mouth, and, in one motion, let his arm fall behind my head, resting it on my left shoulder.
“Sky as blanket, earth as bed,” I said, and moved my left hand above my head, gently placing it beside his.
Heizi didn’t say anything—just quietly took hold of my hand.
We stared at the stars in silence. The park was still. I wanted to speak, but didn’t know what to say.
“Did you buy the plane ticket?”
“Flying the day after tomorrow. Of course I did.”
“I meant the return ticket. For next month.”
I bumped him lightly with my shoulder. “You’re doing this again.”
He lightly brushed my hand, still looking at the sky.
“When next month?”
“Next year.”
“Next month.”
“If you buy me the ticket, I’ll come back.”
Heizi pointed to his head. “Use your brain. Think of some way—like getting deported.”
I smacked his arm above my head. He didn’t mind—he liked seeing me pretend to be annoyed. I tapped his hand and left two fingers resting in his palm.
He gave my hand a firm squeeze.
I squeezed back.
Heizi kept talking, about nothing in particular. But all I could hear was the rustling of the leaves above us. I didn’t interrupt—there wouldn’t be many more chances to hear him talk.
I wanted to ask him so many things.
Like why, after the three-month lockdown, I was the first person he came to see.
Why, after climbing the firewall, I was the only one he called.
Why, those drunken nights, he held me so tight.
Why, out of everyone, I was the one he chose to be vulnerable with.
And yet—why, after we slept together, he never dared to take a step forward.
Was his tenderness just a way to avoid awkwardness after I confessed?
Did he ever, even for a moment, like me when I liked him?
The river no longer reeked of that briny stench it had during the typhoon days.
“Smells good,” I said, turning my face into the grass, shifting my body slightly, hiding the storm that was rising inside.
“Hold on,” Heizi said. “There might be a security guard.”
I faced the ground. The grass had just been trimmed—bits of it still floating above the soil.
“It’s prickly,” I said. “I want to turn over.”
“He’s still leaning on the railing,” he whispered.
So I stayed in a twisted position—body turned toward Heizi, face turned away toward the patrol. The grass pressed against my cheek, sharp and itchy.
“Has he left yet?”
“Nope. Doesn’t look like it. Just hang on a bit longer.”
“I’m not comfortable.”
“Now. You can turn.”
I took ten seconds to shift—first facing the grass, then slowly sliding into the crook of Heizi’s arm.
He smiled. “Looks like he didn’t notice.”
Maybe it was the cold. Maybe leftover tension. Maybe we thought holding tighter would help us hide.
He stroked my hair gently, rubbing it between his fingers. He was thinking about something.
After a moment, as the guard walked off into the distance, Heizi seemed to come to a decision. He sat up and looked at me.
I thought he was about to pee, so I lifted my head to look at him.
He blocked the outline of the branches above, paused for a second, then dropped his body down.
That familiar touch melted into mine. My mind went heavy, sinking like it could fall straight into the grass beneath me.
Emotion pulled desire behind it, trampling over all that had been. Outdated resentment, the ache of inevitable distance, spilled out in staggered breath. It tangled with longing—quiet and fierce—pushing and pulling across the empty slope, asking the same questions again and again.
The rustling leaves echoed above us. Heizi panted low along the edge of my ear and neck, then began to kiss me there, gently.
I gasped, my hands tracing the muscles I had longed, across many nights and tables, to touch.
“Stop… I’m on my period.”
The guard was still circling somewhere far off. And that night—dark, rustling, loud even in stillness—sang out its brightest song, tempting us to reach closer to something real.
Was there eternity in that closeness?
That patch of grass kept sounding beneath us, a firm wall between me and the edge.
Each time I moved nearer to the real thing, it would quietly lift the leaves above as a warning.
Would the grass still sting?
Was the guard still watching?
Would the edge still be there?
That night, every moment of hesitation came with a soft warning. But in chasing the fleeting, I leaned closer anyway.
The warning wasn’t sharp—just loud in its echo.
I didn’t yet know that getting close to the edge was dangerous.
Didn’t know that after looking over, the eyes carry shackles. And a biting void.
I only knew I wanted that night to last.
And it did.
I just didn’t know that after it,
the trees would stand bare.
And the grass would only ever sting.
