ARCHIVE 10
BOHEMIAN MELODY

ACOUSTIC METADATA

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• TIMESTAMP: Summer, 1982

• LOCATION: University Volleyball Court, Beijing

• PRIMARY SUBJECT: Rowan (Symmetrical Perfection)

• AUDIO DATA: Dvořák’s Symphony No. 8, Rhythmic void (0.5s)

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Years later, by the volleyball court, Gao Yong looked like a "Hanging Ghost" with his head stuck in a steel horn. He stared at Rowan while blathering loudly. Whenever she leaped to spike the ball, his throat would leak the viscous resonance of hormones: "Beautiful! So beautiful!”

I sat in the stands. The campus loudspeakers played Dvořák’s Symphony No. 8. The Bohemian melody suited Rowan perfectly.

After the spike, Rowan landed. Large beads of sweat rolled down her translucent neck, vanishing into the mystery of her jersey. She looked at me, breathing hard, her eyes filled with the arrogance of a victor: "Hey, White Eagle. What did you see?"

I blurted out: "Your pelvis produced almost no transverse waves upon impact." She froze. Her heart rate was momentarily emptied by sheer bewilderment, creating a rhythmic void lasting half a second.

"Oh... sorry. I meant, the distribution of force throughout your body at the moment of the spike was a composition of perfectly symmetrical perfection." Laughter erupted around us—a chorus of dry, self-righteous audio.

"A perfect score for gravitational acceleration. Absolute full marks," I muttered, lowering my head, not intending for Rowan—standing like a bamboo pole on the court—to hear.

She walked over, ignoring her teammates' confusion, and crouched before me. "My dear scholar," she whispered softly. "Are you alright? Were you trying to tell me I’m beautiful?" "Yes... yes. I'm a fool," I replied.

Silence. "Go back and rest." Her face darkened, then she smiled, giving me a light push.

Gao Yong seemed to drop from a tree, approaching silently, his throat rattling with a thread of phlegm.