Ice wine
Panqiu's birthday falls between summer vacation and the start of the new semester.
This day marks both the end of summer and the beginning of the new semester.
When she was twenty-one, she and Zhiwei cut a cake here, drinking orange-flavored beer. It was quiet but had a unique charm.
When she was twenty-two, she received a book from Ethan, and Lin Yue and Zhiwei celebrated with her in a lively manner. At that time, she thought that it would be great if it could be like this every year.
But when she turned twenty-three, everything returned to silence—no cake, no toasts, no one to keep her company; she was all alone.
During the day, she went to the department as usual. Her laptop lay open on the table in the cubicle, a blank document on the screen, the cursor blinking like the urges rising in her heart:
Should we just knock on Ethan's office door? Say hello and tell him I'm back.
For now, put aside those unresolved emotions and boundaries.
Each time the cursor blinked, a thought in her mind was ignited like a spark.
And each time it went out, she ruthlessly suppressed the impulse.
And so, in the blink of an eye, her fingers rested on the keyboard, but she never pressed a single letter.
The sounds of younger students chatting reached her ears; they were enthusiastically discussing which courses to choose and which professors' classes were easier to get good grades in. Pan Qiu suddenly realized—this was her third year of doctoral studies. She had already completed the first two years' worth of coursework, and now, apart from research, there were no "daily tasks" to manage. For a moment, she felt a strange sense of emptiness.
Just then, Barbara turned around and struck up a conversation with her, smiling. Barbara was a year ahead of her and was in charge of coordinating the orientation for the new cohort of doctoral students. Her eyes sparkled with excitement:
"Qiu, do you want to help with the freshman orientation next week? It's a department tradition. Every year, upperclassmen coordinate the process and confirm the professors' flash lecture schedules. It's really interesting, trust me."
Pan Qiu paused for a moment, her heart skipping a beat.
She suddenly remembered the scene from two years ago when she first attended a orientation event. Ethan was on stage that day, wearing a gray shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his arms, dark trousers, standing tall and speaking in a gentle tone.
She hadn't expected that she would remember these details so clearly.
Even clearer is a sentence he said when discussing his research direction—"Adjustment is not suppression, but listening." That sentence still echoes in her mind. ... Her research on "inner language" has emerged step by step from that "listening."
Barbara added with a smile, "Come on, you're perfect. You're the best at handling things, and we really need someone who 'looks reliable'."
Her first reaction was, "Yes?"
Before she could speak, Barbara sighed and added with a hint of regret, "Oh, right, there's something to regret—Ethan isn't coming this year. I asked him, and he's traveling out of town. Isn't that disappointing?"
Pan Qiu was taken aback, and her heart relaxed a little. She blurted out, "Okay, I'll do it."
Barbara's eyes lit up immediately, and she snapped her fingers: "That's how it should be! You'll love it—lots of chaos, lots of coffee, lots of new faces. Seriously, it's like an academic version of a speed dating show."
Her heart was filled with mixed feelings. She felt safe, because she didn't have to worry about seeing him at the welcome party beforehand; yet she also felt empty, as if some suspense had been prematurely removed.
As evening fell, it was already dark when I stepped out of the department building. The Greek Bakery on the street corner was lit up, its window displaying a variety of small, exquisite, and colorful cakes, creating a lively atmosphere. Pan Qiu stared at it for a few seconds, then finally turned and left.
She imagined herself alone, lighting candles and making wishes in an empty room. The image was both eerie and heartbreaking.
Across the street, there was still that "Spirit and Wine" shop. The wooden signboard remained like a silent old face, quietly watching her.
She suddenly remembered the hopeful feeling she had when she silently walked into this store on her first birthday. Two years had passed, and now it all overlapped, only this time with a touch of loneliness. She quipped to herself: her twenty-third birthday, and she was facing alcohol again.
All things considered, her connection with this store is longer than anyone else's.
She pushed open the door, the wooden door creaking softly. Under the dim light, rows of wine bottles lined the shelves, their glass reflecting the light, creating a scene as quiet as a small museum.
Panqiu lingered in front of the shelf, finally reaching out to pick up a bottle of ice wine. The bottle was slender, holding only 375 milliliters, its pale yellow color translucent, like a drop of amber frozen in sunlight. The label read: $39.99.
She held the bottle in her hand, reading the label line by line. The alcohol content was 10.5%, lower than regular red wine. Panqiu stared at the number, lost in thought—as if assessing how much she could tolerate.
She took a deep breath, a hint of self-mockery rising in her heart: on her twenty-third birthday, the first thing she did was calculate whether she could drink a bottle of ice wine by herself.
When she got home, the lights were off, and sure enough, no one was home. She put the bottle of wine on the table and suddenly felt a sense of emptiness.
If only Zhiwei were still here.
Zhiwei always stays at home—sure enough, computer science produces homebodies… So what major produces—a playboy? She chuckled at her own thought.
She turned on the stereo and randomly selected an ambient song; the melody was gentle, yet it only accentuated her loneliness. She opened the bottle and poured a small glass. The amber liquid shimmered warmly under the light, and when gently shaken, it resembled melting golden syrup.
She brought the glass to her nose, inhaling slightly. The fruity aroma was so intense it almost overflowed, as if all the sweetness of summer had been condensed into a single drop. It was cool and smooth on the palate, excessively sweet, almost not like wine at all. She couldn't help but mutter: This isn't wine; it's clearly a bottled dessert.
As she drank, she subconsciously glanced at the label, her professional instincts kicking in:
Ice wine is made by hand-picking grapes that are still frozen in the early morning when the temperature is -8 degrees Celsius. The water in the grapes is frozen, leaving only sugar and aroma, resulting in a wine that is exceptionally thick and sweet. Due to its low yield and demanding process, it is significantly more expensive than regular wine. Only a handful of countries in the world can consistently produce ice wine, with Canada being a leading producer.
She stared at the little liquid in the glass, a somewhat ironic thought popping into her mind: so "ice" was just the beginning, and "sweetness" was the end.
Just like the struggles, repressions, and pain in the research, in the end, only a beautiful conclusion may remain.
As for the cold and loneliness during the process, will anyone care?
She chuckled softly, as if laughing at the wine, or perhaps at herself. She took another sip, the sweetness quickly filling her tongue, while a warm feeling slowly rose in her stomach.
After one glass, she felt her cheeks begin to burn. By the second glass, she couldn't help but giggle, staring at the bottle on the table, even wanting to talk to it. By the third glass, she rested her chin on the back of her hand, feeling the world light and airy, as if someone was pushing the ceiling away.
She opened the book she had on hand: The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone.
That was a birthday gift Ethan gave her last year.
He laughed and said that he bought it on a whim during his layover in Budapest.
Panqiu stared at the cover for a while, her fingertips gently tracing the word "Lonely".
Alcohol makes thoughts indulgent and tender—
And what about him now?
Are you in an airport waiting area again?
Did you just randomly pick up a new book?
And there was something she dared not think about—would he travel with his wife and children?
In front of the airport duty-free shop, what souvenirs are suitable to bring home?
Or perhaps... he was alone, walking down a strange city street, pushing open an unfamiliar door, the neon lights on the street corner reflecting fragmented light through the glass window.
The image overlapped with the ice wine in her hand: Can a cold beginning truly lead to a sweet ending? Even so, who will share the loneliness of the process?
Her heart clenched slightly, and she smiled bitterly as she sipped the last drop from the bottom of her glass.
Just then, a very slight noise came from the doorway. The key touched the lock cylinder gently with a "click," and then the door was carefully pushed open, letting in a cool night breeze.
Panqiu raised her head blankly, and in her half-conscious state, she realized—her new roommate was back.
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