Afternoon of the Century Baby

I heard the news in a jazz bar. The television was hanging in the corner of the bar, silently playing the news. The anchorwoman had a beautiful face, her lips moving, uttering words like "century baby" and "passed away." I stared at the scrolling subtitles at the bottom of the screen, confirming the authenticity of the news.

I can't remember his name. Perhaps it was mentioned in the newspaper, but I didn't pay attention at the time. January 1, 2000, 0:00, the beginning of a new millennium. He was given too much meaning, symbolizing hope, the future, and all good words. And now, all these words have become hollow and empty with his departure.

I took a sip of whiskey, the ice cubes clinking in the glass. There weren't many people in the bar, just a few men drinking alone like me. Perhaps they were also thinking about the same question: why did a person chosen by the times end his life so briefly?

His life was perhaps like this glass of whiskey. The entrance is spicy, the aftertaste is sweet, but in the end, it will all return to blandness. Did he also feel the loneliness in this blandness? Did he, like me, think about the meaning of existence in the afternoon sun?

I remember that year, I was a fresh graduate, full of confusion about the future. I saw him on TV, a baby surrounded by countless flashes. His cry seemed to be a declaration to the world, and also a helplessness to fate.

At that time, I always felt that time was infinite and life was long. And now, I have entered middle age and began to feel the passage of time and the brevity of life. I began to understand that everyone is like a lonely planet, spinning alone in the vast universe.

The door of the bar was pushed open, and a woman in a red dress walked in. She had long black hair and blurred eyes, like a cat lost in the city. She went straight to the bar and ordered a whiskey, the same as mine.

I looked at her, and she looked at me. There seemed to be an invisible connection between us. Perhaps we were both惋惜ing for the deceased "century baby," perhaps we were both thinking about our own lives.

"Do you believe in fate?" she suddenly asked.

I shook my head, "I don't know. Maybe it exists, maybe it doesn't. Like Schrödinger's cat, everything is unknown before the box is opened."

She smiled, a trace of bitterness in her smile. "Perhaps we are all just living in a huge box, waiting for the day it is opened."

I didn't answer, just silently drinking. I thought of Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea. The lonely old man fought with a giant marlin for three days and three nights, but in the end, he only brought back a skeleton.

Is our life also like that marlin, full of struggle and helplessness? We try hard to pursue our dreams, but we often hit our heads in front of reality.

"To that child," the woman raised her glass.

"To him," I also raised my glass.

We drank it all.

Outside the window, the sun was still shining. But I felt a strange chill.