Why the Village Beauty Pretended to Be a Shrew

Winter, 1994. The cold wind rattled the newspaper stuffed into the cracks around the window. A bright red double-happiness character was pasted onto the mottled mud wall, and the cheap candle spat out a dim, yellow spark. I hugged a worn-out roll of bedding, huddled in the corner, not daring to lift my head and look at the bride sitting on the edge of the kang. "We don't really have any feelings for each other yet. You take the bed, I'll sleep on the floor, and we can build it up slowly from here." I forced the words out, stammering.