一页纸爱的故事——夏雪

从没想过我会变的这么老，但我们也年轻过，跟所有人一样也曾经历过豆蔻年华。有时候，当凉风习习，我闭上眼，我们仿佛又躺在她家门前的草地上。我记得那是1990年，应该已经是10月了，地上铺满了落叶，深秋的料峭为她苍白的脸颊增加了两抹晕红。依偎在一起，我的脸能感觉到她喘息所带出的温热。我们的双唇离得如此的近，就像两个独立的世界，哪怕再靠近一线，就会永远地跌落到彼此的深渊中。已经记不清我们身体的感觉了，我们就好像是残破帆布上随意勾勒的模糊轮廓，永远地被定格在命运的危崖边缘。

“有没有想过你长大了会变成什么样？”她问。

“没有。”

“我觉得我会变成一个高大的女人，喜欢穿裙子和高跟鞋。”

“你马上15岁了，才一米六，我觉得你长不了很高。”我说。

“我知道我不会很高，我只是想像我会变成那样。”

“我从没想过我自己会变成什么样。”

“是不是感觉有点吓人？”她说。

“什么？”

“害怕想像你长大后的样子啊，我就有点害怕。”她说。

“不管你变成什么样子，我都会永远爱你。”我说。

她躺倒在草地上，长而直的头发在她周围散开，彷佛正漂浮在水中。我没告诉她，其实我想的更远。当她老了，当所有人都已经逝去的时候，我还陪着她。我会永远记得她最后的时光。那时候窗总是开着，哪怕是在冬天。高高的吊顶天花给她微弱的声音增加了一种剧院的回声效果。虽然那只是毫无意义的呢喃，但她却反复念诵着，仿佛在唱一首只有她才听得懂的歌。她曾今画了很多自画像，藏在朝阳那间房的抽屉里，有几张过了很多年才被发现，笔迹已经剥落，如同她自己一样一点一点地消逝。她的小手总是沾满碳粉，却不掩其苍白纤细，如同山茱萸的花瓣般一夜间便染白了林子，仿佛夏雪。我们默默地躺在那儿，幻想着未来无数的可能，或许有对方，或许没有。小阳春最后的骄阳正在荏苒而逝，深秋的寒意如电流一般穿透我的身体，在后来无数这样的秋日里，这种感觉总是萦绕着我。

原文：

One Page Love Story - Summer Snow

by Adam Stanley

I never thought I would be this old. But we were young once, like everyone is young once. Sometimes when the wind is cool I shut my eyes and again we are lying in the grass in her front yard. I think it was in 1990, and it had to be at least October, because there were yellow leaves all around us, and her pale cheeks were red from the cold. We were so close I could feel the heat of her exhale breath on my face. Only inches from each other’s lips, we are forever fixed in this position, like two, separate worlds, who are always on the verge of falling into the deepest part of each other. Our bodies were nearly imperceptible, only faint brushstrokes, captured in once vibrant, now faded oils on the vast emptiness of an unfinished canvas, forever poised on the edge of fate’s crumbling precipice.

“Ever wonder what you will look like when you’re older?” She asked.

“Not really.”

“I see myself as a tall woman who always wears dresses and high heels.”

“You’re almost fifteen and you’re only five-foot-two, I don’t see you growing much more,” I said.

“I mean, I know I won't be tall, but it’s just how I see myself.”

“I don't suppose I see myself at all.”

“Maybe it’s too scary,” she said.

“What?”

“You’ll be afraid of what you’ll see. I am,” she said.

“Whatever you look like, I will still love you,” I said.

She lay back in the grass. Her hair was long and straight and it spilled around her as if she were underwater. I didn't tell her, but I could see even beyond all that. When she is old, and after everyone else is gone, I am with her. This is how I will remember her last years. The windows always open, even in winter. The high, coiffured ceilings added an operatic quality to her normally soft voice, and though most of the time nothing but meaningless intonations, her words were like lyrics to songs only she could hear. The way she drew pictures of herself in charcoal and hid them in drawers throughout the sunlit rooms, sometimes not finding them for years; and then shaking off the black dust like lost shadows as she fell apart piece by piece, her small hands always stained, pale and delicate as the dogwood petals that had whiten the trees overnight like summer snow. As we lay there, silently, both of us were imagining many futures, with or without the other, as the last golden days of Indian summer were slowly, and almost imperceptibly giving way to the late autumn chill that move through my body like electricity, a feeling that often comes back to me on days like this.