跨年夜｜曉薇
2020 年的最後一天，我原本打算像往年一樣，一個人窩在家裡看電視倒數。沒有聚會、沒有朋友、沒有活動，一如既往。但那天下午，我接到一位在瑜伽課上認識的女學員傳來訊息，邀我參加她家舉辦的跨年聚餐。我們並不熟，只因住得近而偶有聊天。或許是她的熱情讓我動搖，又或許是那一刻我實在太渴望有一點變化，我決定破例參加。
我帶著一盒點心抵達現場。她邀請的都是一群成年後才開始跳舞的女性，大多數人已為人妻母，氣氛親密而熟絡。她們彼此從學習肚皮舞開始相識，後來陸續接觸芭蕾與現代舞。一進門，她便忙著準備食物，並沒有正式介紹我給其他人認識。我只好默默地坐在一角，努力跟上她們談話的節奏，從斷裂的話題中拼湊出背景脈絡，伺機插入一兩句話。
不久之後，一位中年女子的丈夫也來到了聚會。他外表其貌不揚，戴著銀框眼鏡、穿著幾件疊加的灰色舊 T 恤與外套，身材微胖，說話帶點尾音。完全不像一個會在聚會中引人注目的人，但一進門，他卻自在地穿梭於人群中與每位女性寒暄打招呼，似乎與大家都相當熟稔。
吃飯到一半，他開始幫一位中年女士按摩。兩人先坐在椅子上，他為她按肩頸與背部。後來乾脆轉到客廳角落的一張地墊上，女士整個人趴著，他跪在她身後幫她按背，動作專業而熟練。旁人沒有人覺得奇怪，有的繼續聊天，有的目光偶爾掃過。我則始終不自在地將背轉向他們，總覺得這樣的身體接觸，在一場家庭式的跨年聚會裡顯得突兀。
更令我詫異的是，他的妻子——這場聚會的主人——也坐在地墊邊緣滑著手機，毫無表示。甚至在他幫第二位女士按摩時，直接躺在地墊角落睡著了。這一切都讓我感到莫名的荒謬與詭異：這是一場聚會，還是某種隱蔽的演出？我不明白，但沒人覺得不妥，彷彿這是習以為常的流程。
快接近午夜時，他轉頭看向我，突然問：「你有沒有哪裡不舒服？」我一時沒反應過來，誠實地回答：「右肩有點痠。」話才說完，我就被引導到那張熟悉的地墊上，坐在他與他妻子之間的位置。他開始替我按摩肩膀，動作與語氣都很自然，彷彿只是單純的體貼。我告訴自己：放輕鬆，不要多想。
但他的手一路從肩膀往下，伸進我毛衣的衣領，越來越靠近乳房。我愣住了。腦中瘋狂閃過「這是正常的嗎？」「他是不是不小心？」「我該不該制止？」但我說不出口。甚至因為現場太多人，我反而更加遲疑。沒有人注意，也沒有人介入。他的妻子坐在我旁邊，卻只低頭滑著手機。
直到午夜倒數結束，他的手毫無預警地壓上了我的乳頭，用力地，一次又一次。
這場跨年，我沒有舉杯，也沒有祝福。只記得周圍爆竹聲響起、煙火炸裂，我卻躺在地上，動彈不得。
凌晨兩點半，我藉故提早離開。
隔天醒來，肩背的疼痛像一道微弱卻固執的訊號，提醒我：昨晚的事，不只是身體記憶。
我試著回想當下為何沒有反應、沒有轉身、沒有喊停。
可能是因為那場景太熟悉了——熟人、家庭、關心、專業……像一張柔軟的毯子，把錯誤包裹得溫暖又不容質疑。
那不是按摩。那雙手像是偷偷越界的旅人，在別人眼前走進不該進入的國度。
沒有人拉警報，也沒有圍欄，那角落光線昏暗，卻什麼都看得見。
原來，騷擾並不總是尖叫或掙脫的劇烈場面，有時它披著熟悉的外衣，從最日常的縫隙裡悄然潛入。
而我，在那一刻，只是被按住的一具身體。
在眾人舉杯的煙火聲中，安靜地、無聲地，陷入一種無法命名的困惑。
New Year’s Eve
On the last day of 2020, I planned to do what I always did: stay home alone, watching TV to count down to the new year. No parties, no friends, no activities—just the familiar silence. But that afternoon, I received a message from a woman I’d met in a yoga class. We weren’t close, but she lived nearby and often chatted with me. Her invitation to a casual year-end gathering at her home felt warm, and perhaps I was ready for something different. I decided to go.
I brought some snacks. The guests were all middle-aged women who had picked up dancing later in life. Most were married or had children. They had met through belly dancing, and later tried ballet and contemporary dance. The host was busy preparing food and didn’t introduce me to the others. I quietly sat in a corner, trying to follow their conversations, piecing together their stories, waiting for an opening to say something.
Soon, a middle-aged man arrived—the husband of one of the women. He wore silver-rimmed glasses, multiple faded gray T-shirts, and a loose jacket. With his oily side-parted hair and soft-spoken tone, he was almost invisible. But he greeted every woman in the room with ease, joking and chatting as if this were a regular scene.
Halfway through dinner, he began massaging one woman’s shoulders and neck. Then they moved to a mat in the corner of the living room. She lay face down while he knelt behind her, working on her back. The others paid little attention, continuing to chat. I turned my back to them, feeling uneasy. It seemed out of place—too physical, too intimate for a casual house gathering.
What surprised me more was his wife—the host—was also sitting nearby, scrolling on her phone, unbothered. When he started massaging a second woman, she even lay down on the edge of the mat and fell asleep. Was this a party or something else? I couldn’t tell. No one found it strange. No one asked questions.
As midnight approached, the man turned to me and asked, “Are you feeling sore anywhere?” Caught off guard, I answered honestly, “My right shoulder is a bit tight.” Moments later, I found myself sitting between him and his wife on the same mat. He began massaging my shoulders, speaking gently, moving naturally as if it were routine. I told myself to relax, not to overthink.
But then his hand slipped inside my collar, down toward my chest. I froze. A thousand thoughts raced through my head: “Is this normal?” “Maybe it’s a mistake?” “Should I stop him?” But I said nothing. Too many people. Too many layers of doubt. His wife sat right beside us, still scrolling.
When the countdown ended and the room cheered, his hand pressed hard on my breast. Again. And again.
That night, I didn’t raise a glass. I didn’t celebrate. I just lay there on the floor, paralyzed, while fireworks exploded outside.
At 2:30 a.m., I quietly left.
The next morning, my shoulders and back ached—not from soreness, but from the echo of what had happened.
I replayed it again and again. Why didn’t I move? Why didn’t I say anything? Maybe because everything felt so normal—familiar faces, warm greetings, “medical knowledge,” and “concern.” It wrapped the violation in a soft, convincing blanket.
It wasn’t a massage. His hands crossed a line, slipping into a place they didn’t belong—right in front of others, like a traveler who knows no border.
There were no alarms, no fences. That dim corner saw everything.
Harassment doesn’t always arrive with screams or violence. Sometimes it wears the face of someone helpful, and slips through the most ordinary seams.
And me—I was just a body being held in place.
While others toasted the new year, I sank into a silence I didn’t yet know how to name.