Lingering Warmth

The wall clock read eleven forty-seven when Clara set the last dish on the table. The skin of the steamed sea bass had wrinkled. The sweet-and-sour ribs sat under a thin, congealed layer of sauce. Even the snow fungus and lotus seed soup she had simmered for three hours held only the faintest ghost of warmth. Two place settings waited on the table. The one across from her hadn't been touched. Her phone screen was dark. She didn't make a seventh call. Of the first six, three had gone unanswered and three had been cut off. Her last WeChat message, sent at four in the afternoon — "Coming home early tonight?" — had sunk without a ripple. Clara sat down and poured herself a bowl of soup. The lotus seeds were tender, the snow fungus thick with gelatin, the sweetness perfectly balanced. She drank slowly, sip by sip, as if performing some kind of ritual. The city lights blazed outside the window. From the thirtieth floor, the traffic flowed like a river of light. She carried her bowl to the window, and when she spotted that familiar black Bentley turning into the community gate, the bowl trembled in her hands. She didn't move. She just stood there, watching. The car stopped. The driver's door opened first — but it wasn't Ethan who stepped out. It was a woman in a cream-colored dress. She walked around to the passenger side and bent down, as if saying something to the person inside. Then Ethan got out. Tall and straight, Clara could pick out his silhouette even from this distance. The woman said something with a smile and reached up to adjust his collar. Ethan didn't pull away. Clara set the bowl back on the dining table. Half the soup remained, but she'd lost her appetite. When the sound of the lock turning reached her, she was sitting on the sofa flipping through an architecture magazine. She was on page thirty-two, a feature about a Pritzker Prize-winning art museum — a page she'd read at least ten times already. Ethan walked in, carrying the scent of alcohol and an unfamiliar women's perfume. He tugged at his tie and tossed it onto the entryway console, his voice flat. "Still up?" "Waiting for you." Clara closed the magazine and looked up at him. He hummed in response, bending down to change his shoes, his tone giving nothing away. "Work dinner. Forgot to mention it." Forgot to mention it. Clara turned those three words over in her mind. They tasted of nothing, like chewing on a dried leaf. "What's today's date?" she asked. Ethan straightened up and frowned, as if wondering why she was asking. He glanced at his phone. "October twenty-seventh. Why?" "Nothing." Clara stood up and returned the magazine to the shelf. "The food's on the table, if you're hungry —" "Already ate." He cut her off, already heading toward the study. "I have an early meeting tomorrow. I'm going to shower first." His back disappeared down the hallway. The bathroom door closed, and the sound of running water soon followed. Clara stood where she was, listening to the water, and suddenly felt how quiet it was. So quiet it felt as if she lived in this house alone. She walked to the dining table and carried the dishes, one by one, into the kitchen. When she tipped the sea bass into the trash, her hand paused. She'd picked out that fish herself that afternoon at the seafood market — lively, wriggling. While the vendor cleaned it, she'd been thinking about how Ethan loved fish, especially steamed. Now the fish was cold, and he hadn't come home to eat it. Clara washed the plates, dried them one by one, and put them back in the cabinet. Her movements were slow, as if taking apart something fragile. The water stopped. Ethan came out, towel-drying his hair, and blinked when he saw her standing in the kitchen doorway. "What are you doing there?" "Ethan." She said his name softly, but steadily. "Hm?" "Let's get a divorce." His hand stilled mid-motion. For several seconds he looked as if he hadn't heard her correctly. His brow furrowed deeply, and there was an irritated impatience in his eyes, as if she'd disturbed something. "What did you say?" "I said," — Clara looked him directly in the eye, each word deliberate — "let's get a divorce." Ethan stared at her for a long moment, as if searching her face for some sign that she was joking. He found none. He tossed the towel aside, his voice dropping. "Clara, have you had enough of this little tantrum?" "I'm not throwing a tantrum." "Then what's wrong with you?" He stepped toward her, looking down from his greater height. "Because I came home late tonight? I told you I had a work dinner —" "I know." Clara cut him off. "I saw everything." He froze. "Downstairs," she said calmly. "Who is that woman?" A flicker of discomfort crossed Ethan's face, but he quickly recovered. He frowned, his tone edged with the impatience of someone explaining the obvious. "That's Olivia Reed, the new marketing director. She was at the dinner tonight. I gave her a ride on my way —" "She lives in our community?" "She just moved in. The building next to ours." "Oh." Clara nodded and didn't press further. Her calmness, in fact, made Ethan feel worse — like punching a pillow. "Clara," he said, forcing his temper down, "don't be unreasonable." "I'm not being unreasonable." Clara lifted her head, her gaze as clear and deep as still water. "Ethan, we've been married three years." He fell silent. "The first year, you said the company was just starting out and you were busy. I understood. The second year, you said the company was finding its footing and you were even busier. I understood that too. The third year —" She paused, and the corner of her mouth tugged upward without forming a smile. "The third year, you can't even remember our wedding anniversary." Ethan's Adam's apple moved. He opened his mouth to say something, but in the end only managed, "I forgot." "I know you forgot." Clara's voice was gentle. "I waited all night. From seven until eleven forty-seven. You didn't come home. You didn't say a word." "I told you I had a work —" "You didn't tell me anything." She cut him off softly. "Not a single message." Ethan was silent. After a few seconds, he ran a hand through his hair in irritation. "Fine, it's my fault. I forgot. I didn't say anything. Happy now? I'll make it up to you tomorrow. Wherever you want to —" "No need." Clara shook her head. "Ethan, I'm not fighting with you, and I don't want you to make anything up to me. I'm just… tired." When she said the word "tired," her voice was so light it might have been a sigh. But something tightened inexplicably in Ethan's chest. He'd known Clara for five years, been married to her for three, and he'd never heard her say she was tired. She was always gentle, always the one waiting for him to come home, always keeping the house in perfect order, always bringing him a warm glass of milk when he worked late, never saying a word of complaint. So when she said she was tired, Ethan's first reaction wasn't guilt — it was anger. "You're tired?" He let out a cold laugh. "Clara, you stay at home all day. No job, no business dinners. What do you possibly have to be tired from? Who do you think I'm killing myself out there for?" The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. But they were already out there, impossible to take back. Ethan's pride wouldn't allow him to retract what he'd said. Clara looked at him, and the light in her eyes dimmed, little by little — like someone slowly turning down the flame of a lamp. She didn't argue. She didn't cry. She simply nodded gently and said, "I understand." Then she turned, walked into the bedroom, and closed the door. Ethan stood in the living room, listening to the soft click of the door, and a nameless restlessness rose in his chest. He kicked the leg of the sofa, his face twisting in pain, but he had nowhere else to channel his frustration. He thought Clara was being unreasonable. So he'd forgotten an anniversary — was divorce really necessary? Women were such trouble. Yet for some reason, his stomach was in knots. Something felt wrong. He sat on the sofa for a long time — long enough that the living room lights began to feel harsh. Finally he stood, walked to the bedroom door, hesitated, and pushed it open. The bed was empty. The covers were neatly arranged, as if no one had slept in them. Ethan's heart gave a hard lurch. He strode to the wardrobe and pulled open the doors — half her clothes were gone. Not all of them, but the ones she wore most, her favorites — all missing. On the nightstand sat a piece of paper. He picked it up. Clara's handwriting was neat and clean, a single line: "The divorce agreement is in the study. Sign it and contact me." There was no signature, no date. Ethan crumpled the paper in his fist, his knuckles white. He pulled out his phone and dialed Clara's number. A mechanical female voice came through the receiver: "The number you have dialed is powered off." Outside the window, the wind had picked up without him noticing. By late October, the nights already carried a chill. Ethan stood in the empty bedroom, and for the first time, he felt that this three-hundred-square-meter house was too big — too big to bear.