He is eighteen years older than her. He is the savior who picks her up on a rainy night and is the ambiguous controller who traps her in a gentle cage.
There was a heavy rain that year, and she was curled up on the street corner like an abandoned wet cat. The thirty-eight-year-old man, wearing a suit and leather shoes, picked her up in a mess. He gave her a sheltered home, but never gave her any extra money; he held her to sleep, kissed her until her body became weak and her breathing was disordered, pressed her against the wall and kissed her until both of them turned red and out of control, but he clung to the last step, his Adam's apple rolled and said, "I'm afraid you will destroy yourself."
He raised her, never starved to death, but never fed her; he doted on her, talked to her late at night, but was stingy with even saying "like".
The gap of eighteen years lies between the two of them. They are not father and daughter, but they have a taboo pull that transcends generations; they are not lovers, but they do all the ambiguous things between lovers, and they can't even hide the emotions in their eyes; but they are also a benefactor and a canary. He is greedy for the comfort of her young body, and she needs his wealth to survive, and is indulged in this morbid entanglement that transcends age.
They chatted about everything except "what is our relationship".
His gentleness is like poisoned sugar, and his restraint is like a shackles wrapped in gauze. The eighteen-year-old she went crazy in his hot and cold indulgence, and the thirty-eight-year-old him sank in his careful forbearance. Every time he got close to her, there was taboo ambiguity, and every restraint hid his turbulent thoughts.
No one knows when this tight string of taboo will break? I don't even know if the secret he hides behind "not touching her" is deep affection or another more morbid calculation...
