A spark slowly grew at the Toyota Center arena logo, first catching James Harden's big beard on fire. Three Rockets players ran over to help put it out. Just then, Xiaoli walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, head tilted, wet hair hanging down. She dried her hair while gazing toward the distant Toyota Center, squinting.
"That one — who is that?"
"Harden." Harden stood at the free throw line, his singed beard growing back.
"Who?"
"James Harden. The NBA's leading scorer, the Houston Rockets' franchise star." Harden calmly sank a free throw.
"Oh." Xiaoli looked like she'd understood, grabbed the hair dryer and started blowing her hair. That soft-green Philips hair dryer was my favorite — it had the same adorable shape as a Peashooter.
The Warriors' fast break was swallowed by the howling wind.
Her hair turned fluffy again, just a small damp patch remaining on top. The wind died down. Livingston passed to Iguodala, wide open in the corner. He grinned and sank a three-pointer.
"Basketball has one-point shots?" she asked me weakly. "I thought there were only two-pointers or three-pointers."
"There are. There are one-point shots." Big-bearded Harden stepped to the free throw line again.
"Oh." So there really are one-point shots. "Why did you light a candle?"
"Too dark."
"Then turn on the lights!"
"Too bright."
"Oh." Xiaoli sat down beside me, still wrapped in her towel. Her fully dried hair was soft and fluffy, like a grassland stretching out in the vast spring breeze. I reached out my shooting hand and pulled her into my arms. The Golden State Warriors scored on another fast break; backup Varejao on the bench waved his towel excitedly.
"Look, the away team is surrendering," I said, pointing at poor Varejao. "Raising the white towel — surrendering: 'Have mercy, good hero, oh my mama!'"
Xiaoli burst into giggles. "You're making this up, aren't you?"
"Watch — they're handing over the ball and getting ready to leave." The Warriors' head coach called a timeout.
I lifted the towel and lightly stroked her smooth thighs, fresh from the bath, thinking of the standard for washing test tubes in chemistry lab: neither beading into droplets nor running in streams.
"What are you laughing at? You scoundrel!"
The Golden State Warriors' players took the court — inbound play. I opened my right hand and caught the ball firmly. The girl, like the badger that Runtu couldn't spear, twisted and threw herself on top of me. Said badger stood one hundred and sixty-eight centimeters tall, and still had to bend down to nuzzle against my face.
Away team turnover; home team launched a fast break. I grabbed Lili's head firmly and tilted it onto my left shoulder: "Please let me watch this play, buddy."
The towel got knocked off, like a cat knocking a cage off a shelf. I wrapped this bare woman around me from behind — couldn't afford any more turnovers now.
"How is it?" she asked me, like a comforter.
"Drove into the lane and made a two-plus-one. Harden's back at the free throw line again."
Thump thump thump, my chest beat like a drum. Between the second and third ribs, it ached sharply. I let out a hiss. Whatever you do, don't turn it over — this is the Toyota Center!
"What's wrong, does it still hurt?" She put her hands behind her back, grabbed the towel and covered herself.
"Mm."
I picked up a Marlboro Menthol and squeezed hard to pop the cooling bead in the filter. A rush of icy freshness burst out.
"Go see a doctor. Get an X-ray."
Warriors players bolted toward the frontcourt like rabbits. I thought: over on that bench sits someone who just had an MRI done.
"Not going." Can't put on a suit and sit on the bench of life (and I don't have a suit anyway).
Lili gently pressed on my chest, like a car rolling over the surface of Guangzhou Bridge. I reached out and kneaded her. I really wanted to knead her into pieces.
Finally we made love. To avoid my cigarette, she arched her body backward into a reverse bow, hair hanging down to the floor, the cat reaching out its urgent little paws trying to wind it all into a ball of yarn.
"The leading scorer — ah, here he comes again…" Lili panted, and I quickly put down the hand that was fighting for a rebound to steady her soft waist. In the Toyota Center inside Lili's eyes, big-bearded James Harden stepped to the free throw line once again — this time upside down.
I pulled Lili back and held her in my arms. Against her ear, I thought: how wonderful it would be if humans were hermaphrodites — then I would know the feelings of this woman who at this moment was gasping in agony, puffing hot breath, straining to arch toward me. But that sentence was far too long. I held Lili tight, like a mold for a chest, trying to press the woman into the shape of an embrace.
Number five leaped up, splayed out, fell hard, thrusting fiercely into the woman held against him, finishing inside her body.
The referee blew the whistle.
This was a day in late spring of 2016. I put on my number five jersey and went out to play. That day, the Golden State Warriors and the Houston Rockets played Game 4 of the playoffs. The Rockets lost on their home court, eliminated 0–4.