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Sometimes, Xiaoge feels like she blinked and her lovers grew old around her.
She swears it was just yesterday that they were eyeballs deep in beetles or salty corpse water or the snake of the week. When they found themselves running for their lives every single time their paths crossed. Back when none of them knew what was going on, when Xiaoge’s past was a murky mystery and Wu Xie’s future just as uncertain— she remembers how that used to bother them, how they chased down answers at great personal risk; she wonders when they stopped running after them. Was it when Wu Xie got sick? Or did they all just finally get their fill?
(Thank god, really.)
Sometimes she feels it all slipped away from her. Like sand in her clasped hands, too much to hold. As if she’s been clumsy with it, with the time they’ve had, and failed to notice before she had lost too much of it.
But, in all honesty, she knows that isn’t true.
She remembers every single thing about them.
She remembers every line on their well loved faces. The way Pangzi’s laugh lines, ever present, deepened into crevices, swallowing the space from the corner of her eyes to her hairline, creasing around her mouth, the apples of her cheeks bulging and pink, a little ruddy, but no less beautiful for it. “Ah, your Pang-ye’s face does tell a story, doesn’t it?”
She remembers when Wu Xie found her first grey hair, can remember the slow creep of salt and pepper that started at Wu Xie's temples until Wu Xie's hair was more grey than anything else, thinning a bit over the years. She remembers Wu Xie’s panic over it, closely followed by her righteous indignation that Pangzi still had immaculate dark locks. She still does to this day. “ How is this fair? You’re older than me! Pangzi, don’t you dare laugh at me, you dick!”
She remembers tenderly caring for Pangzi after her knee surgeries. Remembers holding the glue gun as Pangzi sat in bed and bedazzled the cane she never quite lost the need for. Remembers reorganizing the entire kitchen, standing on the ladder so they could put in pegs on the walls for all of Pangzi’s cookware so she would never have to lean over again with her bad back, though she still makes Xiaoge retrieve things for her. “Xiaoge, be a big strong husband for me and get the cast iron pan?”
She remembers when Wu Xie’s menopause just… never came; after years of missed and irregular periods, which she had always blamed on how hard she always treated her body, the damned thing just never showed up. She remembers Wu Xie going to the doctor, remembers waiting at home while the Pangzi drove them in (Wu Xie’s vision was declining already, though her glasses hadn’t reached quite the coke-bottle thickness they one day would, and she avoided wearing the ones she had as long as she could until the last possible moment) and having Wu Xie come home with a pale, shocked face. “ My body— I fucked it up. They blame drug use, and I think— I think it was the venom— I’m infertile.” A beat, then a huge, relieved grin breaks over her face and it’s infectious, Xiaoge can feel her own eyes soften in a light smile. She knows what Wu Xie is thinking about, the guilt her family has weighed her down with finally lifting. Wu Xie laughs and laughs, feeling relief at the craziness that is their lives for once, and Pangzi whoops while Wu Xie hugs Xiaoge tight.
She remembers Wu Xie getting sick. She remembers Wu Xie getting better. She remembers Pangzi getting sick. Then getting sick again. And again. She remembers Pangzi losing weight and Wu Xie and her scrambling to take care of her, to fatten her up, to get her whole again. She remembers Pangzi being determined to keep in good spirits, even while she struggled, because that’s the kind of woman Pangzi is. She remembers them never going into another tomb and them all just quietly accepting it. “I guess we can finally all get those dogs you’ve been talking about, Tianzhen.”
She remembers the bickering. So much bickering. Like a melody that she’s heard over and over, so familiar that the quiet without it would feel oppressive. “God, I’m getting old. Tits to my busted knees—” “Yours aren’t any saggier than mine” “Tianzhen yours are saggy as hell.” “You—!”
She remembers love. So much love. She remembers every tender caress, every moment of passion, of intimacy, though none of those have dwindled. Age has never put their fire out, not for one another. “You’re stuck with us old biddies, even as we grow old and crusty—” “You’re beautiful.”
She remembers.
As Xiaoge sits and watches her two great loves talk as Pangzi cooks from her spot perched on the counter (and isn’t that such a sign of devotion, of love, to be given a place of honor, to be allowed to take up not just space, but prime space on Pangzi’s precious counter). She can’t help but think about how dearly she loves them, how big her love is, how it takes up every little bit of her chest, and how that love will stay put long after she has to say goodbye.
Xiaoge remembers everything that matters.