We’ve been married for three years, and I’ve already lost count of how many times we’ve quarreled in that time. You know I’m not a very attentive woman, but there are some fragments from our quarrels that are etched into my memory.
Once, during a quarrel, you pressed your body tightly against the door, afraid that I, this willful little woman, would dash out the door at midnight.
Once, during a quarrel, you slammed the door and left by yourself. I hurried after you, but no matter what I did I couldn’t find you. After I went home alone and looked at the empty room, I burst into tears. You quickly ran out from a corner of the room and held me. From then on, whenever we quarreled, you always hid somewhere I could find you.
Once, during a quarrel, we didn’t speak for a whole week. One day after work, when I got home, I simply couldn’t open the security door, so I had no choice but to call you and tell you to hurry home. Later I found out that you had tampered with the door. To tell the truth, I wasn’t angry about it at all at the time—I was deeply moved instead.
Once, during a quarrel, you picked up your luggage and wanted to leave. I clung tightly to your bag and said through tears: “You can’t leave like this. I’m your most important piece of luggage. If you go, take me with you.” As a result, we ended up taking a trip to Hangzhou together..
Once, during a quarrel, in a fit of anger I cut our photo together to pieces. You spent the whole night pasting it back together.
Once, during a quarrel, I said I wanted to divorce you and looked everywhere for our marriage certificate, but I just couldn’t find it—it was you who had hidden it.
You said I was the one God sent to quarrel with you, and how perfectly in step we are in our quarrels! Knowing when to shout, when to cry, when to throw things, when to bring up divorce, when to make up again…
Yes, our marriage is a marriage of quarrels.
Even now, we still quarrel often. But you no longer block the door with your body, and you no longer hide the marriage certificate. You know I won’t leave you. Yes, if I leave you, I will cry. I don’t want a flat marriage without quarrels, without tears, without reconciliation, without laughter. I want to grow old with you slowly amid quarrels and reconciliation, tears and laughter. That rice cooker, which has been thrown by me, this violent little woman, no fewer than ten times, will go on cooking for us. It is as sturdy and healthy as our marriage.
I don’t know whether I love you or not. I only know this: if I leave you, I will cry. I am the one God sent to quarrel with you.
Once, during a quarrel, you pressed your body tightly against the door, afraid that I, this willful little woman, would dash out the door at midnight.
Once, during a quarrel, you slammed the door and left by yourself. I hurried after you, but no matter what I did I couldn’t find you. After I went home alone and looked at the empty room, I burst into tears. You quickly ran out from a corner of the room and held me. From then on, whenever we quarreled, you always hid somewhere I could find you.
Once, during a quarrel, we didn’t speak for a whole week. One day after work, when I got home, I simply couldn’t open the security door, so I had no choice but to call you and tell you to hurry home. Later I found out that you had tampered with the door. To tell the truth, I wasn’t angry about it at all at the time—I was deeply moved instead.
Once, during a quarrel, you picked up your luggage and wanted to leave. I clung tightly to your bag and said through tears: “You can’t leave like this. I’m your most important piece of luggage. If you go, take me with you.” As a result, we ended up taking a trip to Hangzhou together..
Once, during a quarrel, in a fit of anger I cut our photo together to pieces. You spent the whole night pasting it back together.
Once, during a quarrel, I said I wanted to divorce you and looked everywhere for our marriage certificate, but I just couldn’t find it—it was you who had hidden it.
You said I was the one God sent to quarrel with you, and how perfectly in step we are in our quarrels! Knowing when to shout, when to cry, when to throw things, when to bring up divorce, when to make up again…
Yes, our marriage is a marriage of quarrels.
Even now, we still quarrel often. But you no longer block the door with your body, and you no longer hide the marriage certificate. You know I won’t leave you. Yes, if I leave you, I will cry. I don’t want a flat marriage without quarrels, without tears, without reconciliation, without laughter. I want to grow old with you slowly amid quarrels and reconciliation, tears and laughter. That rice cooker, which has been thrown by me, this violent little woman, no fewer than ten times, will go on cooking for us. It is as sturdy and healthy as our marriage.
I don’t know whether I love you or not. I only know this: if I leave you, I will cry. I am the one God sent to quarrel with you.