Death of a Red Heroine

at her mouth with the paper napkin, and picked up another oyster. To his surprise, she dipped it in the sauce, leaned across and offered to him. The gesture was terribly intimate.. Almost that of a newly married wife. He let her insert the chopsticks into his mouth. The oyster immediately melted on his tongue. A strange, satisfying sensation.
    That was a new experience to him, being alone with a woman he liked, in a room he called his own. They spoke, but he didn’t feel that he had to make conversation. Nor did she. They could afford to gaze at each other without speaking.
    It had started drizzling, but the city at night also seemed more intimate, peaceful, its veil of lights glistening into the infinite.
    After dinner, she murmured that she wanted to help him clean up.
    “I really enjoy washing dishes after a good meal.”
    “No, you don’t have to do anything.”
    But she had already stood up, kicked off her sandals, and taken over his apron that hung on the doorknob. It was pleasant to see her breezing around effortlessly, as if she had been living here for years. She appeared intensely domestic with the white apron tied tight around her slender waist.
    “You are my guest today,” he insisted.
    “I can’t just watch you doing everything in the kitchen.”
    It was not really a kitchen, but a narrow strip of space with the gas burner and the sink squeezed together, barely large enough for the two to move around in. They stood close to each other, their shoulders touching. He pushed open the small window above the sink. His feeling of well-being—in addition to the effects of the good food and wine—came from a sense of being, not just in a scantily furnished apartment, but at home.
    “Oh, let’s just leave everything here,” he said, untying the apron. “That’s good enough.”
    “Soon you will have roaches crawling all about in your new apartment,” she warned him with a smile.
    “I already have.” He led her back into the living room. “Let’s have another drink—a nightcap.”
    “Whatever you say.”
    When he came back with glasses, she was rocking back and forth in the rattan chair near the couch. As she sank deep into the chair, her short dress revealed a glimpse of her thighs.
    He leaned against the cabinet, his hand touching the top drawer, which contained the choker of pearls.
    She seemed to be absorbed in the changing color of the wine in her hand.
    “Would you mind sitting by me for one minute?”
    “Easier to look at you this way,” he said, smelling the intoxicating scent from her hair.
    He remained standing with his glass of wine. A “nightcap.” To translate it into Chinese was difficult. He had learned its romantic connotation in an American movie, in which a couple sipped the last cup of wine before going to bed. He was intoxicated with the atmosphere of intimacy that had sprung up between them.
    “Oh, you’ve forgotten candlelight,” she said, sipping at the wine.
    “Yes, I could use it now,” he said, “and Bolero on a CD player, too, would be great.”
    That was also in the movie. The lovers, while making love, put on their favorite record: the rhythm of ever-approaching climax.
    She held a slender finger against her cheek, scrutinizing him intently, as if for the first time. She reached up, taking the elastic band from her ponytail, and shook the black hair loose. It tumbled freely down her back. She looked relaxed, comfortable, at home.
    Then he kneeled down on the floor at her feet.
    “What’s that?”
    “What?”
    His finger touched her bare foot. There was a sauce stain on her small toe. He rubbed it off with his fingers.
    Her hand slid down and grasped his. He glanced at her hand, at her ring finger. There was a lighter band of flesh below the joint where she’d once worn a wedding band.
    They remained like that, holding hands.
    Gazing at her flushed face, he felt he was looking into an open, inviting book. Or was he reading too much?
    “Everything’s so wonderful tonight,” she said. “Thank you.”
    “The best is yet to be,” he said, echoing a half-forgotten poem.
    He had been waiting for this moment a long time.
    The soft light silhouetted her curves against the sheer fabric of her dress. She looked like another woman, mature, feminine, and seductive.
    How many different women could there be inside her, he wondered.
    She rocked back, away from him, and touched his cheek with the palm of her hand. Her palm was light as cloud.
    “Is your mind