《Cherry＇s Fantasy》纨零

1、Cherry＇s Fantasy

　　Lighting the last cigarette， I turn on my phone， staring at the 50 dis-missed calls I have made flickering on the screen． I prop my back against some whatever guard rails， when a gust of wind comes along the vast rooftop， ruffling my hair against the forehead—it hasn＇t been trimmed for almost six months， or more， I can＇t be sure． Through the slit of this unintended fringe cast the neon lights of the city． They rustle and respire， like pores of a gigantic beast， monotonous but precarious． As s-moke dis-misses from my lips， the past arises from the bosom of my memory．
　　So， when did it all get started？
　　When did it all get started？ I cannot tell， or in another word， time before her didn＇t really mean anything to me． It was just a normal day， like any other days since I graduated and worked， when I finally got home at midnight， powered up my laptop and opened some live po-rn website． My intention was to watch some hotties， jerk off my exhaustion (or my brains if you prefer) and sleep． The page was scrolled from top to bottom， then from bottom to top—meh， plain as hell． Nothing but tanned naked sluts twerking or masturbating when audiences paid them to do so． They might be multiple， you know， blondies or brunettes， ebony or Asian， choices were infinite． But all of them seemed to be trapped in people＇s eyes， out of which they looked similar， or almost identical with the same make-up—I dared to guess it was the invention of some celebrities on Instagram． These girls reminded me of dolls displayed in windows． I saw no hope in their eyes， which disgusted me—only because I was also a lifeless walking dead in his thirties myself．
　　I refreshed the page， and that was the moment when she burst into my pupils， and my nervous system as well． She already looked good in the thumbnail—at least she was in a vest． S-miling stunningly in front of a low-quality camera， she called herself Cherry， with eyes wide like cherry pies and cheeks flushed like cherry blossoms． I knew it was the crush． “God damn it she＇s pretty， god damn it…” I mumbled to myself over and over again． My hands departing from the mouse， my eyes blinking no more， through the blockage of sour-cheese socks and decayed stews squeezed a faint scent of this illusory delicacy， fresh and intoxicating， a s-mell of blood in the sun from an unprecedented accident in infancy— pie was Mama＇s unchangeable consolation when I was a child． I hung my head still， yet rolled the eyeballs up， examining around my pity tiny apartment． “God damn it it＇s dark．” Of course it was， I sneered， for where could be brighter when a goddess arrived？
　　Unlike most of her colleagues， she didn＇t play eroticis-m for a living． She sang． Yup， plain as hell． But in places like that， this was almost a feat． A guy in the comment section asked for a hit song with 10 bucks， then her voice gradually emerged from the terrible speaker， tinkling against everything that got luster， the windowpanes， the ceramic tiles， the only light bulb on the corner of the only table… I heard a broken tap dripping， which I had long ignored for years． My senses revived． I radiated with pleasure．
　　I transferred 50 dollars that night， and for the first time in a decade， I slumbered on my own initiative， tight and sound like a baby．

　　From then on， life turned into a totally different story to me． Every day was counted， as Cherry mentioned once that on each Thursday she would be occupied with club activities in college； colleagues＇ contempt could be no big a deal， for Cherry would greet and bid me goodbye every time I came and left， with her beautiful eyes seeing straight into mine； crammed and stinky subways could be perceived as a privilege as long as Cherry＇s gospel reached me afterwards． I even spent less money on anesthetics， tobacco for instance， which could be understandably substituted by my sweet little Cherry． When the twilight lost its last hint of tint， I would kneel with a vertical spine in front of my computer， shaved and washed， listening to her singing hymns， then donating my share． I lived no difference from a devout disciple of an occult heresy． But I enjoyed it．
　　Time went by as I thought it would be a healthy new norm ever after， which proved wrong before long． It turned out to be an ecstasy． On the last day of April， after a show as always， a red circle popped up on my message box in which lay a string of letters． “it＇s my phone number． Keep in touch， boy．” Typed Cherry． Suddenly， volcano erupted， cannon exploded， the firmly immutable land beneath quaked tremendously． “Oh my God!” The screen being held up over the head， in the sky， I dashed around my space aimlessly， exclaiming in a frenzy of happiness and blessing， “God I love you!” Everything in sight whirled， resembling a kaleidoscope fumbled by raw innocent schoolboys under shafts of sun． I threw on my knees in the end， with my hands clasped， I prayed to God， “May I witness your advent？”

　　I MAY， as she declared months later． Actually， it was she who proposed our meeting， “My summer vacation begins on June 27， what about me going to your place？” Frozen in a trance， I halted my hands working on the keyboard at that moment． To be honest， I hesitated． I wondered if I＇d been good enough to meet her in person．
　　After work in the evening， I observed myself in the reflection of show windows by the street， seeing a greasy obese nerd due to excessive fried chickens and beer， with a head half-bald and an expression gloomy like a phantom． I was way out of any definition of good-looking， or even just ordinary． But when my sight zoomed in to my floppy cheeks， then to the things over them， a fire of desire piercing through the darkness， through the extinction of vitality dazed me． When was the last time I owned light like that？ sixteen？
　　I accepted her suggest afterwards， promising I would pay for it． Cherry didn＇t say no． I knew that I might be too daft with a chick， that it might be a fraud， but I cared no more． She was the last grass to clench．
　　The day came around as appointed． I stood by the gate of arrival， with a heart racing out of suspicion． “Please kill my fantasy right now， if you plan to do so， please，” I begged quietly to myself， when she appeared from the opening， stunning just as she had always been， yet slighter and slender than I thought she would be．
　　“Hi! Are you Mr． Anderson？” silvery voice tinkling around my ears， I lowered my head once I spotted her．
　　“Yes… it＇s me．” I felt my face was burning hot．
　　“Then， it＇s very nice to meet you!” A hand was stretched in sight， of which fingers seemed slender and tender．
　　I didn＇t dare to see her expressions． My palms sweated profusely． I wiped them against the rear of my thighs， then took over her hand with both of mine． The instant they contacted an electric current coursed through my flesh—I almost fainted．

　　The following couple of days were like a dream—no， it was a dream． A dream of absent teenage romance containing deliberate arrangements and unintentional conversations． I stayed in a safe distance from her， mainly for the good of my timidity； however， she did so likewise， seeming to understand a nerd with no experience． I felt so grateful．
　　On the last day， we sit on the bank of the ca-nal at sunset， after seeing a romcom and having a fine dining． Gentle breezes whistled around， lifting up her hair， my T-shirt， then her hair to my T-shirt． Silence and serenity were the world， which was interrupted later by a buzz of phone． “Mine，” Cherry said， checking her message which was something about due， about money． I didn＇t catch that on purpose， with my eyes at the mercy of the glistening swirls on the surface of the water． Silence presumed to go on again．
　　“Dan， you know what， I really wanna settle．” Suddenly said Cherry． I peeped coyly for a second， finding her sight wasn＇t on me， then felt relieved to maintain the focus．
　　“You know， I＇ve been in this business for a while， and I think I＇m about to make enough money．” Cherry＇s silhouette against the falling sun blurred on the edge， “my dream is to start a florist＇s and…” Cherry paused a bit， “be with the one I love．” She abruptly turned to my side， blocking the sun， when I was too startled to budge． I ran into her round alluring eyes off guard， “Will you help me？”
　　I went absent-minded． The aura behind Cherry was too bright to be stared at—Mama said you would go blind if you did so． Would I， then？
　　Out of nowhere came some guts， I asked， “Cherry， why did you choose to live on a po-rn website？”
　　Cherry hesitated a bit． She pointed her chin with the index finger， of which the red nail setting her quivering lips off to crimson， “Cuz… I don＇t want people around know about it， you know．”
　　“Then why not… you knew you could have earned more if you did…more．” I stared at her in the eyes， feeling competent．
　　“It＇s because…” Cherry lower her lashes， concealing her beautiful green eyes， “I always believe in love， and… I have to wait till he shows up， right， Mr． Anderson？” Cherry＇s puppy eyes blinked up to me， her tender fingers twiddled， ten red nails overlapping each other， which formed an odd inner delight． An inferior confidence encroached on me mightily． I was one hundred percent convinced that it was my privilege to be blind．

　　I transferred the last， and also the largest sum of money． Cherry said it would earn her a travel for two in Hawaii， offered by the platform． Cherry said she would return the money afterwards． Cherry said we may try to date． Cherry said she would keep her word． Cherry was the master of this stupid android of me．
　　My beloved audience， sorry to bother you at this point． In fact， I got something to confess． Although I don＇t mention much in the word， you may have figured out my poor financial condition． Yes， even before our encounter， I lived paycheck by paycheck． At first， I cut pennies from cigarettes and beer， then from lunchbox， then from electricity and heat． Even with a lifestyle of Cynic， I still could not stay at the top of the sponsor list． So I searched for all the loan sharks in the town， sequenced them by interest， then took out one by one． For Cherry＇s coming I asked for three， and the promising future five． I had run out of them．

　　The cigarette burns my fingers． I don＇t flick it； I place it on the flat under the guard rails， squatting down， watching it s-moldering to its end． How ephemeral it is， I sneer， as well as the good old days that disappeared overnight．
　　I thought I knew about her， about her schedule， her school， her age． But the college is fake， the address is phony， the phone is switched off， and Cherry is definitely not her real name． She just vanished into the air， as if nothing had happened， as if I faked it on purpose． I deserve that， I know—I checked on Google， in cases like mine could it be possible to take my cash back． The answer was yes， but the side effect was a jail sentence for fraud crawling towards Cherry． The moment Cherry＇s， or whatever her s-miles and laughter and frowns and grins flash through my mind I cannot bear it． I have no right to betray my God．
　　I pull myself up， typing on my phone the word she may or may not see， “Cherry， I love you． Sorry， I didn＇t say it in person， but it＇s the best I can do． I will be always indebted for the moments we shared， and I wish you a happy and peaceful life， with a competent husband and two children， a boy and a girl， living in a house with 5 bedrooms． I wish you a free spirit without worries． You deserve to take everything for granted， as long as in my territory． I wish it sincerely．”
　　A few sparks glimmer vaguely at the butt， then go out for good．