So, a lot has happened since that last post. Maybe I was feeling the end of things, when I wrote it, or maybe writing it got me thinking, or got my immediate universe thinking, or whatever. Since then, I have broken up with (or attempted to break up with) C and things have - whoops - gone somewhere with my student, Luke.
Since C has been living in Guangzhou for this mysterious job, I have been so frustrated with him. It was getting to the point where everything he said and did pissed me off. And then there was a string of particularly angering happenings that I think just pushed me over the edge. I mean there have always been things about him and about our relationship that are frustrating, obviously. He has always had these personality things that now bother me, and I was just shoving them out of sight for the sake of the relationship. I know that. Maybe I shouldn't have been doing that all along. But I just wanted to have this relationship with him at whatever cost, I guess. And we did. We had it. We took a weekend trip to Xiamen, which was lovely and we managed to get along alright, but the weekend just solidified my feelings about being done with the whole thing.
There are so many factors that go into this. It was like, I am tired of being frustrated and angry and feeling misused. I suppose I have felt like this all along, to some degree, but just forgot about it in order to be with him. But right now I'm tired of doing that and I don't want to anymore. This is unfair to him, obviously, why now? Why, when we only have five weeks left together? Well, why did you move to Guangzhou and leave me to wait for your calls when we only had two months together? I am tired of doing this and if I don't want to anymore then why should I have to? Well, because we've been together for a significant amount of time, don't I owe you some sort of loyalty? Don't I owe you something just because we've had this wonderful time together? Yeah sort of. Also no. Shouldn't it be enough if we ended now? It is enough - what is left unfinished? Five weeks for us to bicker and cry and whine at each other? I don't want to do that. Why should I have to if I don't want to? Because he wants to, so what is the compromise? If he doesn't want to let go yet, which he doesn't, what am I supposed to do? Doesn't he have equal say in this? Maybe but not when he's been so lazy and irresponsible with me. Not when he hasn't done a single thing for me. Not when he doesn't call or text and shows up late and makes excuses for not spending time with me. But if I've allowed this kind of behavior all along, why act out now?
Because now, someone else wants me.
Not that I make a habit of giving myself over to anyone who asks. But I think Luke was a needed catalyst.
When I was telling C we needed to break up, he was arguing that if we end it now, everything goes to zero, we've got nothing to show. But I disagree. I think our eight months or whatever was eight months regardless of what happens now. I wish he would think that, too, and not sound so pathetic.
Anyway as you can tell, it's been messy and difficult and we've still been in contact and I think I need to go to Guangzhou tomorrow to see him. If we could just fade apart gradually, I think that would be best. I'd still love to talk to him on the phone occasionally, and see him a few times before I go, but I can't be with him. I can't deal with his shit anymore. I told him that. I've told him all of this. He is reluctant but it is so complicated, he has no plan, he fell for me harder in the first place, he doesn't see any problem with me being angry or frustrated, that is a non-issue in his book. I'm sad about this. But I'm distracted.
And I feel like there's been a breakthrough. Even though I miss C and I'm worried about him and I'm worried about Luke and I getting in trouble and I'm sad about the end of that relationship, I feel lighter and clearer than I have all year. Like, recently, I have just been soaking this place up. I have been drinking and having too much sex and going to the beach instead of lesson planning and neglecting emails and eating things I wouldn't know how to order myself and it feels awesome.
Luke and I had a good solid three weeks of flirting and secret dates before sleeping together, so I don't feel too guilty about that. I mean I feel guilty, obviously, because I was still dealing with this other relationship and he's my student. I think his classmates suspect, but don't know details yet, as he is accustomed to not giving them too many details about his activities, I think. Mary, Allison, and Sandy know, which means that probably four more of the American teachers do, too. And two Chinese teachers in our building who know me always see us walking in or out together, so maybe they know, too. It's just a matter of the administration not finding out, or not caring, for the next week and a half until after our final exam. I actually think if they found out they wouldn't care, considering he is 25 and in the Huanan program, not a real student, and there is so little time left in the semester. Or maybe they would throw me in jail or kick me out of the country or torture me with stinky tofu. I dunno. Allison was worrying me that class would be awkward, since there are only like 7 students who come. But it hasn't been, and there are only two classes left for it to become awkward. But, it's not like we just slept together once and left it at that. He has basically moved in with me. We've eaten like every meal together for the past two weeks. I don't know which one of us decided that was OK, but it happened, and both of us are rolling with it, so...it's possible we'll get sick of each other in a week and that will be that. Or not. I have no idea.
If it had been like this all year I would have burned out. Actually I would have been fired before I had a chance to burn out. So maybe it was perfect timing.
Leading up to this, he was soooo adorable, so sweet and flattering. This whole thing was probably more exciting when it hadn't actually happened yet, you know. The thrill of the chase. But it is exciting now in a different way. He is so reserved, when he says or does something heartfelt, it hits my heart hard.
He also happens to be fantastic in bed.
SHOCKING, I know.
Actually not so shocking for you because you don't know the other students at this university.
But shocking for all of us.
I think I have a problem overusing physical intimacy to gain other kinds of intimacy. When we started stepping over the line of appropriateness, and I was thinking about how I could possibly justify having this kind of relationship with my student, I was thinking, but it will allow me to feel so much more connected to China. Maybe that technique is fucked up but for me it's true. It works. And I just like getting close to people like that and I'm too wimpy to do it under normal circumstances. I don't even like when people touch me on the shoulder, normally, but if I have to get into bed with someone to stroke his thick Asian hair and notice the silver strands hiding underneath the black, I will.
Sorry, this has gotten raunchy.
But I can't tell you how much I've learned about Chinese people from spending three weeks with him. I don't mean to generalize all Chinese people based on my interactions with him, but... it's hard not to when he feels so Chinese. Having him in the apartment gives the place this old man-ish, authentic-y flavor...I dunno, like the combination of his maleness and his Chinese-ness makes this space feel totally different than it has all along. He fixed our television, which we thought was broken, so we've spent a few evenings sitting in the living room on our bench-couch doing a puzzle and drinking something and watching Chinese TV. Sitting cross-legged on that couch with him, chopsticks in my right hand and a Tsingtao in the other, listening to him laugh at the slapsticky low-budget-looking program on CCTV channel 12, periodically continuing our big-word-sound-alike competition - globalization...stipulation...regulation...mobilization... - makes me feel like a different person. How is it that my experience of myself here is so malleable? So external?
When we watch American movies, which we always do with Chinese and English subtitles, he mutters under his breath words or phrases he doesn't already know.
"You're not going to hurt me. Come on, quick, before I get a hernia!"
"get a hernia..."
He is whip smart and I see him soaking things up as soon as they are presented to him. When I say something I think he isn't familiar with, I watch for signs of comprehension in his face. Unless he really has no idea what I mean, he tries not to show that he doesn't know that word. I watch him shove it into his brain and then two hours later he uses the word in conversation with me.
Have you ever thought about the difference in pronunciation between "full" and "fool"? It seems nearly impossible. I've had Luke say those two words over and over, and I never get tired of hearing him differentiate.
Sometimes he asks for the spelling of a word he doesn't know. I spell it quickly, and then more slowly when he looks frazzled, and he writes it on his hand with an imaginary finger-pen, the same way Chinese people do when they say a word in Chinese that you don't understand and they think you'll understand if they write the character on an imaginary paper stuck to their left hand.
The amount of Chinese I can speak and understand puts me on a different plane with him. With the Korean exchange students, it lets me into the club. I don't have to feel like the stupid American who can't participate in anything un-American. Out in the world, it lets me through doors and windows and crevices that would otherwise be closed. With Luke, it gives our interactions more depth, allows more paths of communication. One night we lied around in my room reciting Chinese poetry. I don't understand what is corny and what is beautiful but I understand the implications of emphasizing certain words in his dramatic retelling. When his friend calls him and he lies about his whereabouts, I can scold him for the weakness of his lie. He has this thick, throaty, sexy northern accent and I always ask him for stories in Chinese. The other night he told one and the first time around I only understood words, no meaning. Then he told me it was the story of the boy who cried wolf. So the second time around, I understood enough to know when to gasp and when to giggle, and we laughed together, with a Chinese accent.
Saturday night we decided to do hotpot in my apartment - a Chinese favorite that I love and will definitely be bringing back to the States - and invited Leon, another student, and Allison sat around with us too. After we ate, and a few beers into the night, Luke's dad called. Luke asked if I wanted to talk to him and since I'd had enough beer to enable free-flowing Chinese, I agreed.
Hello, sir.
Hello! What are you guys doing?
Eating and drinking.
Wow! You speak Chinese so well!
No, no. um...uh...thank you.
How old do you think I am?
Your son tells me that you're -
(Zoe, no! he wants to know how old he SOUNDS)
Oh, oh. I think you're about 55.
Weeeeehwooooo hahaha wrong! I'm 67!
67?! No, impossible.
Blahbityblahblahbaoblahboaibh
Oh, sorry, I didn't understand...
Don't worry about it...
You live in Shenzhen, right?
Yes yes, Shenzhen. Have you been?
Yes, I went on New Year's. Very nice.
Oh! You should alkdjflakjdfhalbahvlhboih
Um...I didn't understand that...
Here I get flustered and hand the phone back to Luke. He says, yeah yeah, great, right? Yeah, her pronunciation is better than some Cantonese people's! A few more minutes of chatting and Luke asks me, Do you like Beijing opera? My dad sings opera every weekend in Shenzhen and he wants to know if you would like to come hear.
So this weekend we're going to Shenzhen to hear Luke's 67-year-old dad sing opera.
Sweet.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Saturday, May 7, 2011
This morning
I woke up hungover, apartment a mess, huge list of emails to return. I took a shower, ate a mushy banana, and then put on music in my room and felt my happy heart, that I know is still happy under a layer of Chinese grime, pounding happiness like it hasn't in so so long. When that happens it makes me want to pray to something and meditate and call my parents and reminisce and cry. It all comes down to music.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Me Here
http://www.saharazik.com/musique/mauritania/demi-mnt-abba.html
Every Saturday night, Cheikh sleeps over. I don't know quite why it developed this way, but it has been so regular that if he couldn't come for some reason, I would probably sit around not knowing what to do with myself. So every Saturday night, I open the door to C, panting and sweating from the climb up the stairs. He tosses a t-shirt and juice box onto my bed, and takes off his shoes at the most inconvenient spot right in front of my bedroom door. We eat together if I've cooked, then we sit together on my desk chair and watch a youtube video, or read some article he likes, or look at plane ticket prices for our next holiday, or argue about which pictures from my camera I should email to him. Then we put on some non-classical music, roll around, lie around with my teddy bear thighs wrapped around his antelope legs, and shower together. Then he gets back on the computer and reads the news while I do girly hair and skin things. If there is a fight to be had, this is usually when it happens. But they have occurred less and less, consistently since the beginning. Before we get in bed, he puts on Arabic music from this website that has a little girl's voice announcing its name every few minutes. I like to imitate this voice and he laughs and tickles me. We get cuddled up in bed and then ten minutes later have to decide who is going to get up and adjust the volume of the music, or turn up the AC, or close the curtain, or find the chapstick. Then, I lie there looking at the outline of this long, dark man with broad eyelids that make his face look so calm, asleep.
Once a week for the past eight months, I have fallen asleep to the soothing rhythm of this droning, drumming, wailing Mauritanian music. I am the same person who used to lie in my bed that I'd slept in my whole life, press the hour-long button on my alarm, and fall asleep to WSKG classical. And that person was the same person whose mom used to click on cassettes of lullabies before bedtime. I don't even remember being that person.
Saturday night there were mosquitoes harassing us, as has been happening every night lately. We were too lazy to get up and try to kill them, but when in the middle of the night we were still swatting at them above our heads, I sat up to try to do something about it. C has this superstitious theory about white clothing detracting mosquitoes, and he mumbled something about that. I said, I need a mosquito net. He said, get your Mauritanian dress, we'll sleep under it. A few weeks ago he came home from Guangzhou with a gift for me, which was a dress that Mauritanian women wear. It's pretty much just a big, strategically-tied sheet, made out of nice, airy fabric, that goes over your head and around your body a few times. Mine is white with a green geometric print that I don't really like, but how is he supposed to know?, poor guy. I like it all the same, though. I don't have any pictures of myself modeling it yet, because neither of us could figure out how to tie and drape it properly, and I actually can't find any information on the internet about how to do it. I don't know how it's possible that there is no youtube video explaining how to tie Mauritanian clothing. But there isn't.
So I got the thing from my wardrobe, and we threw it over our heads and arms. My computer had also fallen asleep by then, so we lay, unintentionally listening to the bullfrogs croaking in the drains outside and my little unit air conditioner trying its hardest to push out the humidity seeping in through the space under my window/door, breathing in eachother's breath under our gauzy bug shield.
My life here is like this dreamland, alternate reality, caricatured version of a life. Nothing about it is the same as it used to be. Nothing about me, here, feels like the me who I have always been. I think I have never been so different from myself as I am right now. When I get back, will my life snap back into familiarity? Or will I increasingly feel further and further removed from the chubby little girl running around barefoot on Cornell Ave? I guess I remember what she used to feel like. But I don't remember thinking in her brain, I don't remember actually being her.
On the other hand, what's not normal about that situation I just described? There's nothing actually strange about that. But it feel strange to me.
When I go back to the states I'll immediately be able to look back on this time when I was the person I was in China. My life will never ever be like this again. No matter how bitter or frustrated I become with this country by the end, I know I am going to feel seriously painful nostalgia for it, because of the distinctness of the situation. The atmosphere here, the energy that swirls around you at all times, is so particular and unique. So Chinese. No matter how sick I am right now of having to absorb this energy, I know I'll miss it intensely because there will be nothing, anywhere else in the world, that can recreate it.
I have a student, Luke, who has a huge crush on me, and I can't bring myself to discourage it because I enjoy his company. It's not in danger of going anywhere, luckily, because he has the Chinese too-shy-and-inexperienced-to-flirt-properly thing. He is 25 - one of my pre-masters students - and wears vests and jewelry, and smokes, and does magic tricks, and seems like this rebellious free-spirit stuck inside China's oppressiveness. He tells stories about his dad punching him in the face a lot - coming into his primary school, and punching him in the face in front of his classmates to show respect to the teacher. I ask, if you have kids are you going to beat them? He says, noooo no absolutely not, but...I really don't want kids. But once I told my dad that, and he punched me in the face. Anyway, despite the beatings, or maybe because of them? somehow he ended up with the loveliest, most convincing American accent. If you were talking with him, you would notice a lack of contractions (You will not go?), or an over-reliance on certain phrases like "I think that is OK," before you would notice anything wrong with his accent. I know this doesn't sound like anything special for someone looking to study in an English-speaking country, but at this university, even the English teachers have significant Chinese accents. So it feels special to me. Some of the other American teachers and I were talking recently about how we have this problem, which is that is we feel like when we are talking to Chinese people, regardless of their status as student or teacher or administrator, we feel like we are teaching them. Like we can't help but speak to them in this deliberate, accidentally condescending tone. It seems so silly but I honestly thing that I/we must have some subconscious thing with accents, that we just can't get past. Like, a Chinese accent puts up this wall between us and prevents us from interacting normally with people. But I don't have this with Luke. It's partly that I know he will understand 95% of what I say, even when I don't extract from my speech expressions and ambiguous meanings and things that I do normally. But the other part is that his American accent takes down the wall that goes up with other people and makes me feel like maybe I could have normal conversations with him, ones that don't leave me drained, and like I could really get into his brain and understand what he is thinking.
He's still Chinese, so, maybe not.
Usually, C gets up on Sunday mornings and stumbles back to his dorm by 7AM, I think for the sake of morning prayer. I hate not getting to hang out with him in the morning, having to wake up later at 9 or 10 alone. The worst moment of my entire week is when he gets out of bed to leave, and we exchange some sleepy words about calling later that day. In less than two months, I have to say goodbye to him, permanently. Not goodbye until I come back next week, or goodbye until Christmas holiday when I can fly to Mauritania, or even goodbye until I finish having this year-long foreign adventure, or something. Goodbye, like, forever. I have to go to the airport and walk through security with my stuffed lamby and him standing behind, waving, knowing he will most likely never ever see me again. Thanks for being my companion, this life-altering relationship we've had has been great, hope you find a nice Muslim woman and have attractive babies, all I want is for you to be happy, have a fulfilling life, bye. Our ability to be together was particular to this specific time and place, in a way that no other time and place will ever be, so, alright, call me on skype sometimes, OK? Jesus?! If I thought we were right, we would get past all the obstacles. But we're not right. He doesn't make my heart flutter and I don't feel at home with him. I feel in China, with him. We were right here, in China, this year. It's not a waste, at all. It's not a waste of a relationship, or a waste of love, or time, or anything. It's just another experience that I will have to mourn the loss of as it hangs heavy on my heart forever. It's not that you're a bad boyfriend, baby, or that you were unfaithful. Or that I've found another man, or that we've been fighting too much. It's just, our lives would fight. Our lives could not coexist like we have here. You would weigh me down and I would mess you up.
It would be so much easier not to have done this at all. All of it. But I knew that before I came, going in. I knew it would be easier not to go. But if I hadn't come, I wouldn't have spent a Saturday night during the wet season in the south of China cuddling with you under a cotton dress. And where would you be? Maybe already dating someone appropriate and making plans to live together in a mutually suitable location and talking about baby names that both of you could pronounce. Sorry to delay such things. But hell, what's a year, for a lifetime of achingly, maddeningly lovely memories?
Every Saturday night, Cheikh sleeps over. I don't know quite why it developed this way, but it has been so regular that if he couldn't come for some reason, I would probably sit around not knowing what to do with myself. So every Saturday night, I open the door to C, panting and sweating from the climb up the stairs. He tosses a t-shirt and juice box onto my bed, and takes off his shoes at the most inconvenient spot right in front of my bedroom door. We eat together if I've cooked, then we sit together on my desk chair and watch a youtube video, or read some article he likes, or look at plane ticket prices for our next holiday, or argue about which pictures from my camera I should email to him. Then we put on some non-classical music, roll around, lie around with my teddy bear thighs wrapped around his antelope legs, and shower together. Then he gets back on the computer and reads the news while I do girly hair and skin things. If there is a fight to be had, this is usually when it happens. But they have occurred less and less, consistently since the beginning. Before we get in bed, he puts on Arabic music from this website that has a little girl's voice announcing its name every few minutes. I like to imitate this voice and he laughs and tickles me. We get cuddled up in bed and then ten minutes later have to decide who is going to get up and adjust the volume of the music, or turn up the AC, or close the curtain, or find the chapstick. Then, I lie there looking at the outline of this long, dark man with broad eyelids that make his face look so calm, asleep.
Once a week for the past eight months, I have fallen asleep to the soothing rhythm of this droning, drumming, wailing Mauritanian music. I am the same person who used to lie in my bed that I'd slept in my whole life, press the hour-long button on my alarm, and fall asleep to WSKG classical. And that person was the same person whose mom used to click on cassettes of lullabies before bedtime. I don't even remember being that person.
Saturday night there were mosquitoes harassing us, as has been happening every night lately. We were too lazy to get up and try to kill them, but when in the middle of the night we were still swatting at them above our heads, I sat up to try to do something about it. C has this superstitious theory about white clothing detracting mosquitoes, and he mumbled something about that. I said, I need a mosquito net. He said, get your Mauritanian dress, we'll sleep under it. A few weeks ago he came home from Guangzhou with a gift for me, which was a dress that Mauritanian women wear. It's pretty much just a big, strategically-tied sheet, made out of nice, airy fabric, that goes over your head and around your body a few times. Mine is white with a green geometric print that I don't really like, but how is he supposed to know?, poor guy. I like it all the same, though. I don't have any pictures of myself modeling it yet, because neither of us could figure out how to tie and drape it properly, and I actually can't find any information on the internet about how to do it. I don't know how it's possible that there is no youtube video explaining how to tie Mauritanian clothing. But there isn't.
So I got the thing from my wardrobe, and we threw it over our heads and arms. My computer had also fallen asleep by then, so we lay, unintentionally listening to the bullfrogs croaking in the drains outside and my little unit air conditioner trying its hardest to push out the humidity seeping in through the space under my window/door, breathing in eachother's breath under our gauzy bug shield.
My life here is like this dreamland, alternate reality, caricatured version of a life. Nothing about it is the same as it used to be. Nothing about me, here, feels like the me who I have always been. I think I have never been so different from myself as I am right now. When I get back, will my life snap back into familiarity? Or will I increasingly feel further and further removed from the chubby little girl running around barefoot on Cornell Ave? I guess I remember what she used to feel like. But I don't remember thinking in her brain, I don't remember actually being her.
On the other hand, what's not normal about that situation I just described? There's nothing actually strange about that. But it feel strange to me.
When I go back to the states I'll immediately be able to look back on this time when I was the person I was in China. My life will never ever be like this again. No matter how bitter or frustrated I become with this country by the end, I know I am going to feel seriously painful nostalgia for it, because of the distinctness of the situation. The atmosphere here, the energy that swirls around you at all times, is so particular and unique. So Chinese. No matter how sick I am right now of having to absorb this energy, I know I'll miss it intensely because there will be nothing, anywhere else in the world, that can recreate it.
I have a student, Luke, who has a huge crush on me, and I can't bring myself to discourage it because I enjoy his company. It's not in danger of going anywhere, luckily, because he has the Chinese too-shy-and-inexperienced-to-flirt-properly thing. He is 25 - one of my pre-masters students - and wears vests and jewelry, and smokes, and does magic tricks, and seems like this rebellious free-spirit stuck inside China's oppressiveness. He tells stories about his dad punching him in the face a lot - coming into his primary school, and punching him in the face in front of his classmates to show respect to the teacher. I ask, if you have kids are you going to beat them? He says, noooo no absolutely not, but...I really don't want kids. But once I told my dad that, and he punched me in the face. Anyway, despite the beatings, or maybe because of them? somehow he ended up with the loveliest, most convincing American accent. If you were talking with him, you would notice a lack of contractions (You will not go?), or an over-reliance on certain phrases like "I think that is OK," before you would notice anything wrong with his accent. I know this doesn't sound like anything special for someone looking to study in an English-speaking country, but at this university, even the English teachers have significant Chinese accents. So it feels special to me. Some of the other American teachers and I were talking recently about how we have this problem, which is that is we feel like when we are talking to Chinese people, regardless of their status as student or teacher or administrator, we feel like we are teaching them. Like we can't help but speak to them in this deliberate, accidentally condescending tone. It seems so silly but I honestly thing that I/we must have some subconscious thing with accents, that we just can't get past. Like, a Chinese accent puts up this wall between us and prevents us from interacting normally with people. But I don't have this with Luke. It's partly that I know he will understand 95% of what I say, even when I don't extract from my speech expressions and ambiguous meanings and things that I do normally. But the other part is that his American accent takes down the wall that goes up with other people and makes me feel like maybe I could have normal conversations with him, ones that don't leave me drained, and like I could really get into his brain and understand what he is thinking.
He's still Chinese, so, maybe not.
Usually, C gets up on Sunday mornings and stumbles back to his dorm by 7AM, I think for the sake of morning prayer. I hate not getting to hang out with him in the morning, having to wake up later at 9 or 10 alone. The worst moment of my entire week is when he gets out of bed to leave, and we exchange some sleepy words about calling later that day. In less than two months, I have to say goodbye to him, permanently. Not goodbye until I come back next week, or goodbye until Christmas holiday when I can fly to Mauritania, or even goodbye until I finish having this year-long foreign adventure, or something. Goodbye, like, forever. I have to go to the airport and walk through security with my stuffed lamby and him standing behind, waving, knowing he will most likely never ever see me again. Thanks for being my companion, this life-altering relationship we've had has been great, hope you find a nice Muslim woman and have attractive babies, all I want is for you to be happy, have a fulfilling life, bye. Our ability to be together was particular to this specific time and place, in a way that no other time and place will ever be, so, alright, call me on skype sometimes, OK? Jesus?! If I thought we were right, we would get past all the obstacles. But we're not right. He doesn't make my heart flutter and I don't feel at home with him. I feel in China, with him. We were right here, in China, this year. It's not a waste, at all. It's not a waste of a relationship, or a waste of love, or time, or anything. It's just another experience that I will have to mourn the loss of as it hangs heavy on my heart forever. It's not that you're a bad boyfriend, baby, or that you were unfaithful. Or that I've found another man, or that we've been fighting too much. It's just, our lives would fight. Our lives could not coexist like we have here. You would weigh me down and I would mess you up.
It would be so much easier not to have done this at all. All of it. But I knew that before I came, going in. I knew it would be easier not to go. But if I hadn't come, I wouldn't have spent a Saturday night during the wet season in the south of China cuddling with you under a cotton dress. And where would you be? Maybe already dating someone appropriate and making plans to live together in a mutually suitable location and talking about baby names that both of you could pronounce. Sorry to delay such things. But hell, what's a year, for a lifetime of achingly, maddeningly lovely memories?
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