Song of Songs

Song of Songs

She rose at dawn's light to gird herself against the day. Wrapping herself in meticulously dyed silk, forming herself from the gleam of a golden earring, the flick of cosmetic against her cheek, she was a woman comprised of habit, the items of her status. She secured a familiar comb in her smooth, dark hair, watching her reflection in an oval mirror. Satisfied, she rose, to join the rest of her home.

Wu Bao was ready to face the morning.
-
The house was quiet as she set the table, fussing artfully over dishes of rice and a platter of fish. When sated with the arrangement, she stood, smoothing out her simple dress, scratching at an itch in her hairdo. She yawned. For Yang Mei, morning came always too early--but there were chores to be done. She crossed, and entered the room of her son, ignoring his slurred protests as she roused him.

She padded into her bedroom, eyes glancing over an everyday sight. Crawling into bed beside him, she patted the thin hair on her husband's head. Wrinkled, ruddy-faced, Yang San gave a snore, oblivious. She smiled, and gave his shoulder a shake. "Wake up, you lazy thing."

When his eyes finally blinked awake, he flashed her a sleep-drunk smile. "Morning already?"

She grinned, scrunching up her small nose. "Breakfast is on the table. Hurry up!"
-
Fanning away the heat of summer with lazy motions, Bao smiled across the table at her discovery. Walking aimless in the market, she had spotted her, erranding away in her dutiful manner. It seemed a borrowed past that lived in her head, the days that she and Mei had played together in their little village, and too long since they had been together as adults. So she'd insisted, instead of letting Mei excuse herself out of another invitation. Bao pushed an ornate box of candies towards her. "I've missed you."

Mei studied one of the sweets between her fingers. "It must be nice, having a husband who can afford such things."

"Nice, yes," Bao replied, softly, averting her gaze to the blooms of her garden. "I always wanted to be rich."

"How is your son?" Mei was casual, brushing away a flyaway hair that buzzed about her forehead in the breeze.

Bao's face turned into half of a sneer, before it mellowed into her usual impassive expression. "My son." Ever since her husband had brought the mewling foundling home, the trademark of her uncooperative body, she'd resented him with a quiet steel of rejection. "He is well. And yours?"

"Well, yes. He's a good boy." Mei's reply was distant as she searched the face of her childhood friend. A giggling girl swallowed up by the harsh face of beauty. She rose from her seat, smiling gently. "I should be getting home."

Bao watched her, head bobbing up. "Yes," she said, with a sudden dreamy calmness, reaching for Mei's hand, to press its clammy plumpness against her long fingers. The glimmer of her smile passed into her eyes. "I'm happy that we got to visit."

Almost taken aback, Mei smiled again, comfortingly. "Yes. We'll get together again, soon."
-

He'd arrived as quickly as he always left, sending her normally quiet household into a flurry of activity. She watched the rush of servants hungry to please him with a newly alienated wonder, mildly joining in his conversations as he saw fit, ensuring his requests were fulfilled. When dusk came, she let her hair tumble across her pale breast as she leaned into his routine lusty pawing. After he'd fallen asleep, she tied on a simple robe, stepping outside, slipping out of her shoes and letting the wet grass slice between her toes. Gazing up at the constellations, Bao felt on the edge of a thought ineffeable, before it receeded, and she found herself retreating to the warm indoors.
-
He watched them, peeking out from behind a building. The woman-Yang Mei, his mother's friend-and her son, who was clinging possessively to the fabric of her clothing as she shopped over his head. Wu Xun felt a twinge of jealousy, but he set it aside, striding down the path towards home.

He found his mother standing, watching the outdoors from a window. He touched softly on her delicate robe, and smiled his best when she regarded him with her cool gaze. "Look, mother," he said, offering up his creation, "I made you this."

Bao took his gift, a queer figure of a man bound together with sticks and twine, and glanced back at his earnest little face. So eager. She gave him a smile, reaching down to stroke his head with a newfound fondness. "You're a good boy."