Lin Meiyun, 64, is a retired primary school teacher. Her husband died ten years ago and she lives alone today.
Zhao Zhiming, 68, is a retired state-owned enterprise cadre. His wife died of illness five years ago and he lives alone on the sixth floor.
They met in a calligraphy class at a senior college. Three months later, Zhao Zhiming said: How about we get together?
Lin Meiyun agreed, but made seven rules: each should contribute half of the living expenses, each should keep the keys, each should find his own children when sick, live together in different beds, go to each house during the holidays, give one month's notice before departure, and do not disturb the children if they want to leave.
She was afraid of being used as a free babysitter. He is afraid of being cheated and also afraid of being alone.
Two keys, two beds, a joint account. The boundaries are clearly drawn.
But that's not how life goes.
A bowl of hand-made noodles and two poached eggs, his chopsticks were set out for her. She said "no trouble" but walked towards his house. When he was sick, he stayed by the bedside. When his son came, he didn't know where to sit. She washed one of the oranges sent by her daughter and handed it to him without saying anything.
Borders are honey, protecting each individual's freedom and dignity.
The borders are also arsenic, blocking those who really want to get close.
This is a story about "living together". There is no vigorous love, only the temptation, concession, and the courage to move forward little by little.
How far can they go?
The answer is not in the marriage certificate, but in a bowl of noodles, an illness, a quarrel, or a silent look in the eyes.
Open it and see how two independent old people learn to accompany each other while maintaining themselves.
Intention: Thoughts on the emotional contract and tenderness of the elderly - love is countless concrete "togethers"