She walks him amongst the relatives, and each introduction is different—the bow a little lower, the smile more reserved. She is wearing as much of the traditional costume as she could be bribed, pleaded and goaded into—the hair ornaments pinch her temples at every smile. And she is smiling. She talks domestic life while he talks business with a bright (third, fourth?) cousin from Shenzhen. If it were polite to act bored, no one could fault them for poor manners. When it is over, she pulls each golden pin and comb out of her hair and understands what it was like to feel naked while still mostly clothes. He reads courtesan's poetry to her in her native tongue before they make love to shame them all.
When he walks her amongst the relatives, the introductions only differ in intensity of embrace—only Muriel cannot be bothered to stand. He is wearing what he wore on their wedding, but now he doesn't shiver, he sweats for the rare heat of the day. There are formalities here too, fits of boredom when others start to ask them about plans and his mother hangs on every word, waiting to hear the predecessor to tiny feet padding around their ankles in words like, "moving out of the city" and "plenty of space to settle in." They both know the only children in their immediate future are made of wood, bowstring, parchment and ink. When it is over, he undoes each clasp with calloused fingers to match hers, and the different grey of dawn and storms past melt and blur between one edge of his smile and another.