AnYi 安亦

Think of three people in your life. Give your character the hair and laugh of person 1, the face and bedroom of person 2, and the wardrobe and mannerisms of person 3. This is your new protagonist. Feel free to give him or her any other characteristics you’d like. Give us an idea of who your character is by describing only the first 60 seconds of the character’s day.

It’s not every day that one wakes up in one’s own bed half-convinced their body should be better off anywhere else, but this is, owing to some unfathomable joke that fate plays on her life principles, one of them.

Her mind springs into conscious alert as a hand brushes the loose strands of short hair on her forehead, moving on to the nape of her neck where the Dyson-made black curls end. The tenderness in the touch feels alien; the careful familiarity suggests something daunting. Her entire body stiffens, but she keeps her eyes closed, trying to fish up some fragmented memories of the previous night. A score of hushed tones and fervent confessions fleet through her mind, chaotic and noisy, just like her room in the morning.

Through closed eyelids she could sense the dim sunlight shining through the open windows. The crimson curtains have been lifted, and the air conditioner is off. Summer heat in Beijing always seems mixed with car noises and the typical drawling tone of the locals, which she has adopted, especially when she laughs.

‘Your laugh is captivating.’ She was thus told. A scant smile appeared at the tilting corner of her long, narrow eyes; in a transitional moment between fire and water, she allowed them to be kissed. But the reverence with which those kisses fell makes her cringe now. With her eyes still closed, she fumbles under the covers and grabs something silky – that oversized shirt she had bought on an impulse. It cost her two weeks’ salary, but that cruel sensation of release as payment was processed pleased her. She is certain it is in a disastrous state; but it doesn’t seem to matter at the moment.

The hand has moved away from her face. She can still hear soft breathing to her left. The steadiness and certainty embedded in its rhythm gave her brief solace once, but it scares her, when their blatant differences are exposed in broad daylight.

She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes. There, sitting cross-legged on the foam puzzle mat beside the bed, against the muslin-covered chair full of worn-out cuddly toys and tote bags, is a figure embodying the very definition of effortless ease and hope.

‘Morning.’ That smile is just a bit too radiant to bear.

‘I think you should leave.’ She says, turning around and throwing that ruined shirt over herself.