Arealdinner.Notinawarzone.Somewherewithcandlesandwhitetableclothsandabottleofredwinethatnobodyhastodrinkinahurry.Iwouldsitacrossfromyouandlistentoyourstories—thebattles,theocean,themountainsyou'vecrossed.Iwouldn'tinterrupt.Iwouldjustlisten.Andwhenyoufinishedtalking,Iwouldreachacrossthetableandtakeyourhand,andyouwouldn'tpullaway.
（我幻想我们一起吃一顿晚餐。一顿真正的晚餐。不是在战区里。是在一个有烛光、有白色桌布、有一瓶不需要急着喝完的红酒的地方。我坐在你对面，听你讲你的故事——那些战斗、大海、你翻越过的山。我不会打断你。我只是听。等你说完了，我会伸手越过桌子握住你的手，而你不会把手抽走。）
Iimagineuswalkingoutsideafterward.Lookingatthestars.Youwouldknowthenamesofeveryconstellation—I'msureofit.YouwouldpointattheskyandtellmestoriesaboutancientChineseastronomers,andIwouldpretendtounderstand,andyouwouldknowI'mpretending,andwe'dbothlaugh.
（我幻想我们之后一起走到外面。看星星。你一定知道每一个星座的名字。你会指着天空给我讲中国古代天文学家的故事，我会假装听懂了，你会知道我在装，然后我们一起笑。）
Iimagine—butI'llstophere.Someimaginationsarebetterkeptinthedark,likethisle