My current wife’s most-used word in life is “filthy.” She curses nonstop, getting more worked up the longer she goes, reaching a climax where it seems I’m the filthy thing. She yells at the top of her lungs—this isn’t allowed, that shouldn’t be, this needs to be thrown out, that belongs in the trash.
Everything I do is wrong in her eyes. She habitually opposes me—small things get small-scale objections, but for big, critical matters, she goes all out, opposing me with every fiber of her being. As she’s aged, some people gain wisdom and knowledge—she hasn’t. Her temper has only grown, her emotions more volatile, and she refuses to admit fault. She’s become a downright terrifying presence.
I’ve worked tirelessly my whole life, never daring to slack off, hoping artificial field technology would gain societal recognition, yearning for success. She’s done everything in her power to sabotage and undermine me, aiming to prove I’m an idiot and she’s better than me.
She’s kept up her decades-long tirade. I once considered leaving her, but doing so would likely mean a lonely life. In the countryside, a man whose wife runs off becomes a laughingstock—relentlessly mocked and ridiculed. I couldn’t bring myself to take that step. Of course, financial constraints and our kids not yet being settled are big factors too.
My marriage is a failure. I often wonder: surely not all women in the world are like this? A man’s happiness is simple, isn’t it—just a gentle, kind wife?
Loneliness and pain often bring me back to a love from over 30 years ago in Wuhu. When I was 23, I went to Wuhu and met a girl named Aya, sparking a helpless romance.
Before Aya, I’d already had one failed love. In junior high, I fell for a classmate. Her parents despised my poor, rural family and forbade her from seeing me. She was timid and obeyed them. After I graduated junior high, I started digging for eels while she continued studying, so I rarely saw her. That love fizzled out.
In 1989, shortly after arriving in Wuhu, I was selling small goods in my shop when two girls came to buy something. One short girl, seeing me, recoiled as if shocked and stepped outside. Her companion said, “Aya, come look at these pants—how about these stockings?” But Aya wouldn’t come in. When I stepped out, I saw her—16 or 17, with big, bright, clear eyes, a sharp chin and nose that gave her a refined look, fair skin, and glossy black hair. She was beautiful, though short, with a petite, delicate frame.
Aya and her friend Xiaofeng often visited my shop, and we gradually got to know each other. Once, Aya bought stockings from me, then returned days later to return them, saying they were bad. I pointed out she’d clearly worn them—how could I resell them? Aya threw a childish tantrum: “I want a refund! Why can’t I return them? Are you refunding or not?” I didn’t agree, so she tossed the stockings on the counter, cried, and ran out.
That night, as I lay in bed, I regretted not refunding her. Thinking of Aya’s charming face, slim waist, and graceful figure, I jolted upright with a realization: wasn’t this woman my dream lover? I’d dreamt of her countless times, as if we’d been married for decades in a past life.
The next day, Xiaofeng told me Aya had bet she could return the stockings. Aya said she’d dreamt of me countless times, that I was her man from a past life—a man who treated her wonderfully, forgiving her mistakes and doing anything to fulfill her wishes. Xiaofeng’s words stunned me, but I didn’t admit Aya was my dream lover too, appearing in my dreams endlessly. I just asked how old Aya was and whether she lived at the 639 Factory or the Overhaul Plant.
Xiaofeng said she was from the Overhaul Plant, 20 years old, with both parents as workers and Aya their only child. Later, when I saw Aya, I offered to refund her for the stockings, but she refused. She even invited me to a movie.
At the theater, Aya sat close to me, Xiaofeng on her other side. We chatted at first, but after Xiaofeng left, Aya fell asleep against my arm. Her soft body and strong fragrance left me dazed. I was at the age to find a partner, and loneliness and sexual longing clung to me like a shadow.
That night, back in bed, I replayed Aya in my mind, but reason warned me not to let this go further. Aya had an urban hukou (household registration), while I was rural—her family would never approve. Back then, an urban girl marrying a rural boy was as rare as an alien landing in a bustling city.
Every time Aya came to me, I wanted to say, “Aya, we can’t keep doing this—it’s hopeless and will hurt you.” But my crushing loneliness always stopped me from speaking. One evening, she held my hand, then buried her head in my chest. I lost control, embraced her, and brought her back—only to be spotted by an acquaintance.
The next day, Aya’s mother and uncle stormed my shop with a few others, smashing things. Her mother screamed at me, calling me a hooligan and shameless. Neighbors rushed in, shoved them out, and chased them off. Her mother’s furious, twisted face jolted me.
Afterward, Aya tried to meet me a few times, but I refused. Still, she wouldn’t give up, constantly seeking me out. No matter how her mother pleaded, Aya wouldn’t listen. In frustration, her mother sent her uncle to smash my shop again. But whenever he came, my neighbors fought back without hesitation, beating them off. Later, Aya’s uncle told her mother, “We shouldn’t keep smashing his shop. It’s not the guy’s fault—Aya’s bewitched by him. Her eyes light up when she sees him. He’s unusually handsome, well-built, and decent—just a pity about his rural hukou… sigh…”
Whenever Aya came to me, her mother ignored her father’s advice and sought people to beat me. Once, she hired thugs to ambush me at night—four or five of them attacked me, and I ended up in the hospital the next day.
After discharge, as I lay in bed, Aya visited, tears welling in her eyes. She apologized, saying she couldn’t bear her family’s pressure and promised not to see me again. As she said goodbye, she burst into tears, impulsively hugged my head, her tears falling on my hair and face. Choking, she said, “From the first moment I saw you, I liked you—I love how handsome and good-looking you are. Why can’t I have you? Who did I wrong?” She ran out crying, slamming the door hard, as if venting her resentment.
Aya didn’t come back for a long time. Loneliness and pain returned, and at night, I whispered her name countless times.
That New Year, I went back to my hometown in Lujiang. My family introduced me to a few girls, but I rejected them all. Those rural girls were too plain—dark skin, bulky figures, dull, lifeless eyes, steeped in feudal conservatism. They couldn’t compare to Aya—a radiant fairy versus crude, outdated toads.
My parents vaguely sensed I’d been seeing a girl in Wuhu and strongly urged me to give up, saying a romance with an urban girl would never work out.
After the Spring Festival, I returned to my small shop in Wuhu to do business. Soon after, a boy on a big motorcycle brought Aya to see me. She still wanted to hang out with me. I had a hunch this boy might be her boyfriend. Seeing him stirred unease in me, and I silently told myself, “I’m a rural guy—I don’t deserve to love an urban girl.”
But one summer night, Aya came alone to find me. I asked if the motorcycle boy was her boyfriend. She said, “Yes, but I don’t like him. He’s like plain water—no flavor. He wants me to sleep with him, but I refused. It’s you I truly like. I’m still a virgin, and I want my first time to be with you—then I’ll give myself to him.”
As she spoke, Aya started undressing. She took off her tank top, standing there in just a bra, revealing her rounded shoulders. She bent down to remove her jeans, struggling a bit—perhaps flustered—fumbling several times without success.
The image of her mother’s furious, twisted face flashed in my mind. I said, “Aya, put your clothes back on—don’t mess around.”
Just then, a neighbor burst in, asking, “What are you two up to?”
“She wanted to buy this shirt,” I replied.
Aya had no choice but to dress and leave.
The next day at the market, Aya saw me. Her eyes lit up briefly before resentment took over. She said, “You’re so rational, so mature, huh? I hate you! I despise you!”
Before leaving Wuhu, I still vividly recall our last encounter. Aya was sitting in a car about to start. Seeing me, she stood and waved, saying nothing. Though she forced a smile, her eyes brimmed with sorrow. The smile was a mask; the grief was real. That once-childlike, cheerful face had matured, tinged with melancholy.
She was so beautiful, so enchanting, so captivating—yet all she left me with was pain and longing. I murmured to myself.
Back in my hometown of Lujiang, life has been a bumpy, unsatisfying struggle ever since. My wife opposes everything I do with all her might. I’m a failure—a man with a rotten marriage, constantly failing at everything.
That love with Aya in Wuhu—if I’d been braver, my life might have been brilliant, not the mess of failure and disgrace it is now. I often dream of returning to Wuhu, seeing Aya—sometimes with her radiant smile, sometimes with tears streaming down her face.
Was this girl my wife in a past life? Why does her image haunt me so deeply? This bone-deep longing, this piercing pain.
If I get the chance, I’d still want to visit Wuhu again. It’s my place of sorrow, the graveyard of my love.