While his wife and son were still lazing in bed, he, as a husband and father, was already busy in the kitchen.
Not only did he eat breakfast at home, he was also responsible for preparing it. He set the food out properly on the dining table, waiting for his wife and child, just out of bed, to slowly take their seats.
He and his wife both had to go to work, and their son had to go to school. All three of them ought to eat a full breakfast before heading out.
In the past, for convenience, he used to bring home sesame flatbread and fried dough sticks from outside;
later, he felt that takeout food lacked sincerity, so he changed to cooking it himself at home.
Every day he made a special trip home to make breakfast—but before dawn, he was not at home.
He and his wife, who had been sexless for many years, had reached an understanding that allowed him to stay out overnight. At first his awkward excuse was: he had to stay up late working overtime,
and could just doze on the office cot, so why come home in the middle of the night and wake his neurasthenic wife........
His depressed wife said nothing.
From then on, he rarely came home for the night.
Of course, it was impossible for him to give himself to the office—he had his lover's home to go to.
Every night he burned himself out with pleasure in his lover's bed.
But he had one principle: after making love, he had to hurry back to his own home in time and voluntarily prepare breakfast, using that to make up for things to his wife and child.
Only in this way could the dissipation of the night and the virtue of the morning be brought into balance.
The lavishness of the breakfast he provided was directly proportional to the intensity of the night's pleasure; the more ecstatic the previous night had been, the more enticing the next day's breakfast would be.
If he had benefited at night, he had to repay his lonely wife and child concretely with food, otherwise guilt would gnaw at him.
He still remembered his lover's nipples, and then turned around to serve his wife strawberry salad;
while relishing the memory of his lover's golden lower abdomen, he fried honey pancakes for his son.
A busy breakfast, a nourishing act of atonement.
He no longer spent nights at home.
His wife and child, however, never lacked a single breakfast prepared in good conscience.
But his lover kept voicing complaints, because he always did things by the rules: after sex, he would as usual take a shower,
go back to his lover's bed to sleep a few more hours, then wake alertly before dawn, immediately drive home, and never miss a beat.
His lover wanted him to stay and have breakfast together, but he never agreed.
His lover sighed that it wasn't fair. He, however, felt it was perfectly fair.
His lower body, and the latter half of the day, were given to his lover; his upper body, and the first half of the day, ought to be reserved for his wife and child.
His lover should not get to have both top and bottom; that would be too greedy, and would make him lose his balance.
On the night of Valentine's Day, his lover again begged him to stay the next day for breakfast.
He flew into a violent impatience and, by accident, slapped his lover.
Unexpectedly, that slap instead stirred up a tsunami of desire, and the two of them were driven into rapture.
After several fierce rounds of battle, he slept like the dead and forgot to shower.
He even overslept—it was the stabbing sunlight that jolted him awake.
He jumped out of the bed of his affair and furiously demanded of his lover: why hadn't she woken him up early? He was too late to get home and make breakfast—
"Breakfast? It's already past noon. Wait for lunch instead." His lover was calmly frying two steaks. He stormed off.
He went home dejected, stuck in traffic all the way. Half past twelve noon.
At the crossroads, one direction led to work, the other toward home.
At one-thirty in the afternoon, a bad premonition arose in him. He had no desire to go to work, only to go home and see.
His reproductive organs had failed his wife and child's digestive systems.
He entered the house and was astonished to find it dark and stifling—he remembered that the air out on the road had been hot and bright.
He fumbled and switched on the dining room light, and saw his wife in a mouse-gray suit, his son fully dressed in his neat school uniform and clutching his schoolbag tightly.
The two of them sat before the completely empty dining table, as if the two had been sitting there since the beginning of history and had never once moved.
Not understanding what had happened, he could only ask his son :
"Why didn't you and Mom go to work and school?—it's already two-thirty in the afternoon now"
His son stared at him, with eyes just like his wife's. "So hungry. We still haven't had breakfast."
Outside, the blazing sun shone high, but inside his home, dawn had still not begun.
Not only did he eat breakfast at home, he was also responsible for preparing it. He set the food out properly on the dining table, waiting for his wife and child, just out of bed, to slowly take their seats.
He and his wife both had to go to work, and their son had to go to school. All three of them ought to eat a full breakfast before heading out.
In the past, for convenience, he used to bring home sesame flatbread and fried dough sticks from outside;
later, he felt that takeout food lacked sincerity, so he changed to cooking it himself at home.
Every day he made a special trip home to make breakfast—but before dawn, he was not at home.
He and his wife, who had been sexless for many years, had reached an understanding that allowed him to stay out overnight. At first his awkward excuse was: he had to stay up late working overtime,
and could just doze on the office cot, so why come home in the middle of the night and wake his neurasthenic wife........
His depressed wife said nothing.
From then on, he rarely came home for the night.
Of course, it was impossible for him to give himself to the office—he had his lover's home to go to.
Every night he burned himself out with pleasure in his lover's bed.
But he had one principle: after making love, he had to hurry back to his own home in time and voluntarily prepare breakfast, using that to make up for things to his wife and child.
Only in this way could the dissipation of the night and the virtue of the morning be brought into balance.
The lavishness of the breakfast he provided was directly proportional to the intensity of the night's pleasure; the more ecstatic the previous night had been, the more enticing the next day's breakfast would be.
If he had benefited at night, he had to repay his lonely wife and child concretely with food, otherwise guilt would gnaw at him.
He still remembered his lover's nipples, and then turned around to serve his wife strawberry salad;
while relishing the memory of his lover's golden lower abdomen, he fried honey pancakes for his son.
A busy breakfast, a nourishing act of atonement.
He no longer spent nights at home.
His wife and child, however, never lacked a single breakfast prepared in good conscience.
But his lover kept voicing complaints, because he always did things by the rules: after sex, he would as usual take a shower,
go back to his lover's bed to sleep a few more hours, then wake alertly before dawn, immediately drive home, and never miss a beat.
His lover wanted him to stay and have breakfast together, but he never agreed.
His lover sighed that it wasn't fair. He, however, felt it was perfectly fair.
His lower body, and the latter half of the day, were given to his lover; his upper body, and the first half of the day, ought to be reserved for his wife and child.
His lover should not get to have both top and bottom; that would be too greedy, and would make him lose his balance.
On the night of Valentine's Day, his lover again begged him to stay the next day for breakfast.
He flew into a violent impatience and, by accident, slapped his lover.
Unexpectedly, that slap instead stirred up a tsunami of desire, and the two of them were driven into rapture.
After several fierce rounds of battle, he slept like the dead and forgot to shower.
He even overslept—it was the stabbing sunlight that jolted him awake.
He jumped out of the bed of his affair and furiously demanded of his lover: why hadn't she woken him up early? He was too late to get home and make breakfast—
"Breakfast? It's already past noon. Wait for lunch instead." His lover was calmly frying two steaks. He stormed off.
He went home dejected, stuck in traffic all the way. Half past twelve noon.
At the crossroads, one direction led to work, the other toward home.
At one-thirty in the afternoon, a bad premonition arose in him. He had no desire to go to work, only to go home and see.
His reproductive organs had failed his wife and child's digestive systems.
He entered the house and was astonished to find it dark and stifling—he remembered that the air out on the road had been hot and bright.
He fumbled and switched on the dining room light, and saw his wife in a mouse-gray suit, his son fully dressed in his neat school uniform and clutching his schoolbag tightly.
The two of them sat before the completely empty dining table, as if the two had been sitting there since the beginning of history and had never once moved.
Not understanding what had happened, he could only ask his son :
"Why didn't you and Mom go to work and school?—it's already two-thirty in the afternoon now"
His son stared at him, with eyes just like his wife's. "So hungry. We still haven't had breakfast."
Outside, the blazing sun shone high, but inside his home, dawn had still not begun.
弄花香满衣，掬水月在手。
明月鹭鸟飞， 芦花白马走。
我自一过后，野渡现横舟。
青云碧空在，净瓶水不流。
http://dos.e-stone.cn/guestbook/index.asp
＝＝＝＝＝＝中國DOS聯盟＝＝＝＝＝
我的新网页http://rsds.7i24.com欢迎光顾
明月鹭鸟飞， 芦花白马走。
我自一过后，野渡现横舟。
青云碧空在，净瓶水不流。
http://dos.e-stone.cn/guestbook/index.asp
＝＝＝＝＝＝中國DOS聯盟＝＝＝＝＝
我的新网页http://rsds.7i24.com欢迎光顾
