Catkins by Yirou (Eva) He
Image by Loc Dang for Pexels
When Ting walked out of her flat during the evening “rush hour” on March 14th, 2020, with an N-95 mask on her face, there was absolutely no one on what were once the busiest streets of Beijing. It was a windy day, and catkins were starting to fall from the roadside willows, but Ting barely noticed them as she scooted to the entrance of her flat complex.
From three buildings away, Ting spotted the man who’d been waiting for her. He was very skinny, with matchstick limbs dressed in an oversized black sweater and a pair of ripped grey jeans. He had the same N-95 mask on his face and a disinfectant spray in his hand. The security guard, in a light-blue full-body protection suit, handed Ting the visitor registration form through the window of the security booth. After signing her name beside his, Ting led the man into the complex.
“So, your name is,” Ting asked, “Han?”
“Well,” he shrugged. “You can call me that.”
In contrast to her own, his voice, to her surprise, was rather thin and soft.
“You’ve certainly got a lot of nerve,” he said.
“You too,” Ting replied.
They walked in silence for a minute before Ting spoke again.
“Do you still do a lot of this these days?”
“No, no, no,” he shook his head. “You’re the only one, in two months. No clients, you know. And even when there was, I didn’t dare go out. Too risky.”
“Then, why today?”
“Gotta make some money. Bills are piling up.”
“Of course.” Ting chuckled, amused by her own question.
Five minutes later, they were in front of Ting’s flat; on its door hung a rusty plate that read 8003. Sixteen households lived on this floor, but the corridor was absurdly quiet, reminding Ting of the morgues she’d waited in when her grandparents died. Ting shook off the images, took out the key, and opened the door.
Her flat wasn’t large – around a quarter of a badminton court – but for reasons she’d never fathom, the landlord had decided to put a king-size bed in it, making the room look even smaller than it actually was. She took off her mask, dumped it in the bin, and washed her hands twice in the kitchen sink next to the door. Han sprayed himself from head to toe, took off his shoes, sprayed his feet again, and asked if he could take off his mask.
“Of course,” Ting laughed drily. “You can’t really do your job with it on, right?”
She felt bad about the joke the moment it came out of her mouth, but Han laughed, which relieved her a bit. “True,” he took off his mask.
Ting glanced at him. He was more good-looking than she’d supposed. Long fringe with short sides, big dark eyes on an elevated nose bridge, and a sharp jawline – he looked like someone who’d just walked out of a Japanese anime.
How old is he? Ting thought. Similar to me? 27? 25? Or even younger?
He looked around the room, fixed his gaze on her bed, and smiled politely, “may I?”
“Yes, please,” Ting mumbled.
Ting sat down on the sofa and checked her phone half-heartedly. No new messages, as usual. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Han take out a couch roll from his bag and lay the thin, translucent paper neatly on her bed. Professional, she thought. So what’s the next step? Should I do anything now? She wanted to ask him, or at least say something, but she just fidgeted with her fingers.
“All done.” Han turned around. “Do you want me to leave when you take off your clothes?”
Okay, Ting thought. So that’s the next step.
“It’s okay. I can go to the bathroom,” he added.
“No, no,” Ting said. “You can stay. It’s fine. I don’t mind.”
“You better turn on the heater before you do, though,” he turned back again. “It’s still quite cold here.”
The room was silent save for the rustling sound of clothes while Ting slowly undressed. She stole a glance at Han, who wasn’t looking at her, but preparing the massage oil. When there was nothing left to take off, she climbed up on her bed and lay face-down on the soft paper, her thin figure taking up only a quarter of the bed. She shivered a little, and felt the lower part of her body covered by a duvet.
“Just relax.” Han’s voice, now even softer, came from above.
She exhaled quietly and closed her eyes. Soon, she felt the oil dripping on her back and a pair of cold hands pressing on her skin. She stiffened.
“Sorry,” the voice said. “They’ll get warmer soon.”
“It’s okay,” Ting said.
The hands rubbed her neck and shoulders for a while before moving down to her back.
“It might be a little rude to ask this,” the voice fell into her ears again. “But are you single?”
“No,” her voice was muffled by the pillow. “Maybe. I don’t know. We’ve been fighting for a while.”
“Ah. Makes sense. Need the vent.”
Ting didn’t respond. Her back muscles tensed as his hands slid down to her waist.
“Relax, love. I bet you’ve never done this before?”
“No,” she said. “Not really.”
“It’s alright, you know? Trust me. It’ll feel great when you relax.”
The hands were warmer, now. Ting felt the duvet lifted to one side, and some oil dropped on her hips.
“You have a beautiful body,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said, relaxing a little when the hands gently stroked her hips.
“So, what did you guys fight about? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Oh. It’s just…he didn’t like my voice. Said it was too low. Ungirly. Said I sounded like a broken gong when I laughed.”
“That’s nonsense. I like your voice.”
“Thanks. He also said that I’m not smart enough.”
“What – why?” The hands slid down to her thighs and rubbed her calves.
“I don’t know. He’s a writer. He thinks I’m not smart enough to be his muse.”
“What the heck?”
“Right?”
“And what do you do?”
“I’m a writer, too,” she said. “Do you know Hemingway?”
“Hai Ming Wei? I know one of his songs, The Old Man and The Sea.”
“No – that’s a Chinese pop singer whose name just sounds the same…anyway, what I meant to say is, if you’re someone like Hemingway, a dead fish could be your muse, you know?”
“Yeah. I know. It’s his problem. Not yours.”
“Exactly.”
“Hey. Do you wanna turn over now?”
A few seconds later, she was facing upwards, her body fully exposed. She didn’t notice when he’d taken off his sweater and jeans, but he only had underwear on now. He was skinny, but lean. When their eyes locked, she felt a pang of regret and wanted to ask him to leave, but she fought it. I have to finish this, she thought, so that I can be free and happy.
“You can close your eyes if you want,” Han said, and Ting did. From a young age, her mother had told her to be “chaste” and “loyal” and to “belong” to the man she loved. But that notion had only brought her pain. She didn’t want to be like her mother, who gave her entire life to a man who kept betraying her and eventually left her. She knew her boyfriend must have slept with other women when they were together, too. But she didn’t want to care anymore. She wanted to reclaim every bit of herself she had given out, to unchain herself from the shackles of love, care, and belonging. She wanted to stride, to run, to dance, to enjoy sex and embrace the pleasure without any attachment. She knew the first step wouldn’t be easy, since she’d never done it with anyone she didn’t feel she “belonged” to before, but that was exactly why she needed to do it, now. It would be a ritual of her rebirth, a path to freedom and joy. After this, she’d be able to live a truly carefree, happy life.
“Just relax, okay?” Han said.
The hands, now hotter than her skin, covered her breasts. His fingers circled on her nipples, and then were joined by something soft and wet. She made a little noise while he worked his way down. It wasn’t bad – he was gentle, much gentler than her boyfriend – but for reasons she couldn’t fathom, she was prickled by a hidden tinge of sadness. Ting bit her lower lips, trying to suppress this feeling while he gently spread her legs and slipped one of his hands in. She felt his fingers moving deftly on her borders and around her crevice and, a moment later, stuck inside her. They started moving slowly, in and then out, while his lips encircled her bud and his tongue danced around it. She was still unable to completely throw off that strange feeling, but she forced her mind to go blank, and it worked. He was good. It didn’t take long for her to come. When she stopped trembling, he sat quietly beside her for a moment before pointing to the bathroom and asking, “may I?” With no strength to speak, she simply nodded.
After he left, she drew some tissues from the box on her bedside table and wiped herself. Then she lay down on the bed again and stared at the ceiling. The sound of water running, hand washing, and gargling came from the bathroom. She waited and waited for the sense of freedom and happiness to come, but there was nothing, not even the prickle, only a void, a boundless emptiness that engulfed her. To distract herself, she tried to connect the yellow-brown stains on the ceiling into different shapes, like making constellations out of dotted stars in the dark sky. She had loved to do that when she was a child, before her parents migrated to the city of Shanghai, when she could still see the stars on the island she’d grown up on. When the sound in the bathroom stopped, she reached for the quilt and covered herself with it.
“Hey,” he said. “How do you feel?”
“Not bad.”
“It’ll only get better,” he smiled.
She smiled, too, in response, unsure of what she wanted, now. He didn’t carry on with his service, either. He just sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.
“I’m quite experienced, you know. Been doing this for five years, since I was eighteen.”
“Oh,” she took this in and said, “is that so?”
“Yeah. But lately, I’m thinking of quitting.”
“Why?”
“A rich lady, who really fancies me, offered to keep me. She promised to give me 500 thousand yuan, plus an apartment in the city centre.”
“Sounds not a bad deal.”
“Not enough to buy my freedom. I wanted a million, but she didn’t agree. We’re still negotiating.”
“How old is she?”
“43. Not too old. Most of my clients are over 40. Rich old ladies, you know, demanding, never satisfied by their even older husbands. This one’s husband is 60, can you believe that? And he has three mistresses, too.”
“Guess I’m too young for you, then.”
“You definitely are. You aren’t even 30, right? I barely ever have clients below 30. Most girls that age still believe in true love.”
She laughed, but didn’t know how to reply. Both were silent for a while before he asked, “sorry, but can I talk to you about something? I haven’t been talking to anyone properly besides my flatmate since the pandemic started, and you seem like a nice person.”
“Sure,” she shrugged.
“You know, another reason I’m hesitating about the deal is, I have a girlfriend – well, not technically a girlfriend – but something similar.”
“Oh, okay. Does she know what you do?”
“Yes, of course,” he raised his head and looked at her. There was no sign of being offended in his expression. “She’s doing the same work. In fact, she is the flatmate I just mentioned, but I can’t talk to her about this, right? We’ve been living together for almost a year. At first, we just exchanged skills occasionally, no strings attached. But since this pandemic, something has changed. We started to feel things for each other, and we both know it. She doesn’t know about the offer from the rich lady yet, and I’m not planning on telling her.”
Ting didn’t speak, just staring at him. She noticed that his big black eyes blinked frequently while he talked, like a pre-set automatic shutter.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“What?”
“Who should I choose? It’s been troubling me for a month.”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged again. “Maybe the money? Unless you love her, I mean, your flatmate.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, lost in thoughts, and she noticed, almost wonderingly, that when he was thinking, his eyes barely blinked.
“Sorry.” Finally, he seemed to snap out of it and said, “do you wanna carry on now?” His voice softened again, almost like a reflex, while leaning forward to her.
Ting hesitated. Will I feel happy and free if I continue this…if I let him inside?
His hands were moving on her body, again, but somehow, she felt she wasn’t the only one who was distracted. She slid her hand down to his crotch just to see…as she’d expected, nothing was happening down there.
“I’m sorry.” His hand retreated. “Just give me another moment. Okay?”
“Fine.” Ting leaned back on the headboard.
He sat there, staring at the floor again as if trying to gather his vigour. A few seconds later, he asked, “where are you from?”
“Shanghai,” she said.
“That’s strange. Why did you come to Beijing if your home is in Shanghai? I’ve always wanted to go to Shanghai, you know? More rich old ladies, higher market price. But Beijing is closer to my hometown.”
“Because I want to be a writer, I guess.”
“Can’t you write in Shanghai?”
“Not when I’m too close to my family. They want me to do something else. Something more practical.”
“Oh. Yeah. I understand – a proper distance is all that’s needed to maintain a good family relationship, right? I’m from a village in Baoding, Hebei. You know, a two-hour train ride from here. My family doesn’t know I’m doing this, obviously. Think I’m in the real estate business.” He laughed. “But money in that doesn’t come as easy as in this, right?”
“I don’t know, but if you say so.”
They both remained silent again for a long while before he finally gave out a sigh. “Sorry. I don’t think I can do it today.”
“Why?” Ting asked, “is it because of me?”
“No, not at all,” he shook his head. “Okay. I’ll tell you the truth. My flatmate – she’s sick. Oh, please don’t look at me like that. Please don’t worry. It’s not Covid, believe me, just the stomach flu, really. I think she had food poisoning from the cheap food we’ve been eating since last month. She’s been sick for a week, and isn’t getting any better. We can’t possibly go to the hospital right now, right? I heard it’s horrible there. But I just keep worrying about her and can’t get in the mood.”
“Okay,” she said, unsure how else to respond. “I believe you.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m sorry – if you really want it, I can do it with my hand or mouth again.”
“No,” she shook her head. “It’s fine. I don’t want it. I don’t want it.”
“Sorry,” he sighed again. “I guess I should better leave now.”
“You can stay for a little while longer if you want,” Ting said after a brief pause. “I haven’t been talking to anyone properly for months, either. Don’t mind some company.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s the worst time, right? But I should probably just go – it’s already quite dark outside, and it takes me an hour to bike home.”
“Yeah, of course,” she said.
He stood up, checked his phone, replied to a few messages, then packed his couch roll and massage oil bottles into his bag. After putting his bag on his back, he turned around and asked sheepishly, “could you transfer the money to my phone instead of paying on the website? The service charge is pretty high. You only need to give me half the amount. I’m sorry I didn’t finish the service. But if you choose me again next time, I promise I’ll give you a discount and a wonderful experience.”
Silently, Ting reached for her phone under her pillow, scanned the QR code on his screen, and transferred him the amount he asked for.
“Thanks,” he smiled politely.
Ting reclined on the headboard again and pointed to the door with all her strength.
“You know the way out.”
He bowed slightly, put his mask back on, walked out of the door, and shut it behind him gently.
Feeling like a deflated balloon, Ting slipped into her quilt and fell asleep instantly. She had a series of dreams, but when she woke up, she only remembered the last one, in which she had a fight with her mother, who called her a slut; she shouted back with her full strength something like, “Even a slut is better than you! Look at how pathetic you are: no love, no sex, no husband, nothing at all, and you’re losing your daughter, too!” Then her mother began to cry, which upset Ting and made her cry, too. She wanted to hug her and apologise, but she was pulled back by something invisible and couldn’t reach her no matter how hard she tried. She felt the pain of being torn and cried louder. Then she woke up. She wiped her eyes and glanced at her phone. It was already morning on March 15th, 2020; she’d slept for 14 hours straight. She stood up, still naked, with the scent of the cheap massage oil on her body, and entered the bathroom. She turned the water temperature up to 42 degrees, showered for a full hour, and came out near fainting.
The heater was still running, and the room was stuffy. Wrapped in a bath towel, she opened the window. It was another windy day, and catkins were falling into her room, making her sneeze. It was then that she noticed that they had fallen earlier this year than usual. Is it related to the pandemic? she thought. The willows must have pollinated happily with no air pollution and no humans on the streets. She watched the willow branches fluttering and the catkins dancing in the wind. For a short moment, she felt a rush of joy and freedom, as if she had joined them, but then her allergies brought her back into herself. She closed the window, turned off the heater, and checked her phone. No one had texted her except her mother, asking if she had enough food. She replied briefly, thought for a moment, then called her, but no one answered. She then opened the text window with her boyfriend. Their last conversation stopped with her sending him a dozen messages without any reply. She scrolled through their previous chats, which took her almost an hour, and typed something into the text box before deleting it again.
After checking the Covid stats for the day, she started her computer and opened the story she’d been working on for two months. It was about a lonely captive orca who wanted to go back to her family, free in the ocean, but had to perform for the aquarium every day; she grew crazy, attacking trainers and tourists, and was eventually put to death. Ting tried to continue from where she’d left off, but she couldn’t. She just read what she’d written, again, and again, and again.
Yirou (Eva) He (she/her) has a BA from UCLA and an MA from UoM. She has been a screenwriter before pivoting to fiction writing. Moving across different genres, her fiction often inhabits unconventional perspectives, inviting the reader to empathise with the strange and the unusual. She also writes autofiction and poetry.
Visit her on Medium