In April, Qiaoqisha returned from Sydney to attend Juan’s wedding. Juan went to the airport to pick her up and watched from a distance as she approached, her newly augmented cheekbones prominent. The air was thick with the sour stench of sweat amid the clamor of voices, so the planned embrace was skipped. Once outside, Qiaoqisha pulled out two Kent cigarettes, handing one to Juan, and they smoked beside a metal trash bin. Juan smoked quickly, with a kind of ruthless urgency to finish it. After stubbing it out, she idly reached out and touched Qiaoqisha’s cheekbones, finding them cold and hard. “They look natural,” she said anyway.
She drove Qiaoqisha home, and just before arriving, she couldn’t resist asking, “Aren’t such high cheekbones bad luck for husbands?” Qiaoqisha sneered, “I just hope it’s bad enough to kill him.” Juan thought of Heitan’s sallow, sunken face and suddenly felt he might die young.
In the rearview mirror, Qiaoqisha’s face was taut as she reapplied her lipstick—a pale pink, this year’s trendy shade. Juan felt a pang of sorrow. Qiaoqisha had once been so beautiful, but now she was forever a girl whose smile never reached her eyes.
Only when Juan opened the door did Qiaoqisha ask, “Don’t you need to prepare for tomorrow’s wedding?” “Everything’s pretty much ready,” Juan replied. “My parents arrived ages ago—they won’t let me lift a finger.” A black cat and a white cat darted out, meowing frantically around her. She tossed two handfuls of kibble into a bowl on the floor, and they quieted down. “I thought you had a dog,” Qiaoqisha said. “It died, so I switched to cats.”
Qiaoqisha wandered around the apartment, stopping at the floor lamp in the bedroom made of white feathers. “Nicely done,” she remarked. Surprised, Juan asked, “How did you know I made it?” “Because you’ve told me a hundred times,” Qiaoqisha said. “You’re always showing off your little aesthetic touches—it never ends.” They sat on the sofa for a while before Juan got up to make two cups of coffee. She turned on some music, and the room filled with the lazy strains of Bossa Nova. Qiaoqisha picked up the wedding photo album from the coffee table and flipped through it. “He’s not bad-looking, just a bit short.” Juan sat back down. “This set was taken at ‘Lovers’ Pier’ by the sea. A typhoon hit halfway through. We had to go back later to reshoot—it was exhausting.” Qiaoqisha sighed. “I really don’t get the point of these. So fake.” She closed the album, set it back on the table, and plucked a sugar cube soaked in coffee between her fingers, popping it straight into her mouth. Crumbs scattered instantly, dusting her black mesh skirt with white specks. Juan stared for a moment, then realized Qiaoqisha hadn’t lost her beauty after all—and for some reason, that made her uncomfortable.Qiaoqisha had made plans with someone and wouldn't be having dinner with her. Before heading out, she remembered to ask for a condom. Juan laughed and said, "No wonder they call you the Greedy Wolf woman." Qiaoqisha was puzzled, "What's a Greedy Wolf woman?" Juan replied, "I've been studying Zi Wei Dou Shu recently. Your fate palace's ruling star is the Greedy Wolf—destined for romantic entanglements and boundless indulgence." Qiaoqisha said, "I've toned it down a lot lately. Just give me the condom." Juan then admitted, "I don't have any." Qiaoqisha was shocked, "Do you take pills then?" Juan chuckled, "Just from our contraceptive methods, you can tell we're dealing with completely different types of men. If you're always sleeping with more traditional middle-aged men, you'd know how rarely condoms are used." Qiaoqisha frowned, "Don't you think middle-aged men have a kind of decaying smell about them?" She added, "Pills are bad for your health and can make you gain weight. But I don't understand—why accommodate men like that?" Juan retorted, "I'm not accommodating anyone. I don't like condoms either. That rubber smell makes me nauseous. And the thought of inserting such a foreign object into my body just feels wrong." Qiaoqisha said, "Is it really that bad? You've used tampons before, didn't you? If you can get used to those, why not this?" Qiaoqisha was always so aggressive, and Juan couldn't take it, mumbling, "Maybe I'm just more sensitive." Qiaoqisha glanced at her watch, "I'm running late, gotta go. We'll continue this tonight." As Juan closed the door, she asked, "Are you sure you'll be back tonight?" Qiaoqisha shook her head, "Not sure. At the latest, I'll be back by tomorrow morning—definitely in time for your wedding. Just give me a key in case I come back late and have to wake you up knocking." Juan took a key off her keyring and handed it to Qiaoqisha, saying, "Come back early. The makeup artists are arriving at seven. If you're here, you can help..." Before she could finish, the Greedy Wolf woman, carrying the scent of peach blossoms, disappeared behind the closing elevator doors.
It felt like going back a few years, to their university days in Toronto. Qiaoqisha would head out excitedly for dates, while Juan, cigarette in mouth, curled up on the sofa watching HBO movies, quietly waiting for their long-haired young roommate to return. If he happened to be in the mood and the other two roommates were out, they could hook up. Just hook up—she never even asked which art school he attended or what he painted. But she wasn't very focused during sex either, later unable to recall the size of his penis or his preferred positions, even though he was her first. She only remembered not being able to moan. The others could come back anytime, maybe they were already in the living room. But she really wanted to moan. It seemed the only pleasure in sex was just to moan. The louder she moaned, the closer she got to climax. Once, she did moan, and the young man propped himself up and stuffed a sock in her mouth. It stank. From then on, the stench became inseparable from sex, and she maintained the belief that sex was a smelly affair. So whether before or after, she never liked to shower.She didn't make a sound, so the others never found out about it—they were far too careless. The crumpled bedsheets and the scattered stains of semen—hadn't they ever aroused Qiaoqisha's suspicion? After all, they shared a room. Perhaps she had seen, but she never asked. She wasn't the type to ask; questioning wasn't in her nature. She was straight as an arrow, incapable of imagining anything crooked. She was bright and open, assuming ambiguity didn't exist in the world. Qiaoqisha always carried herself like a leading lady; if she were on stage, the spotlight would undoubtedly follow her.
Juan, of course, wouldn’t say anything either. She thought the long-haired young man was pathetic, especially after Qiaoqisha brought home her mixed-race boyfriend. He seemed even more slovenly, like a dirty rag. She told herself it would be over soon. Yet it dragged on for over a year, until she discovered she was pregnant. Now she really couldn’t speak up. If Qiaoqisha found out she’d been knocked up by that filthy rag, she’d never be able to hold her head high in front of her again. So Juan endured until summer break, then returned to her home country to terminate the pregnancy. By then, the tiny form had already begun to take shape. As she sat alone in the waiting room before the procedure, she placed a thin sheet of paper over the ultrasound image and traced its outline. Something inside her shifted—a tenderness welled up, and a foul, restless desire kept rising in her throat.
Summer break was too long. She lied to her mother and returned to Toronto a month early, only to find that the long-haired young man had already been deported for getting into a fight. He’d punched a Canadian police officer—just one punch—and just like that, their story ended. And with perfect justification, he vanished from her life without a trace. Every relationship in her life had ended this way—abruptly, without warning. Most importantly, they had all been utterly secret, with no witnesses.
Juan stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought for a moment, then dragged Qiaoqisha’s suitcase to the sofa and opened it, pulling out each piece of clothing to examine. Qiaoqisha still loved hoodies—white, blue, dark red with houndstooth patterns—paired with spaghetti-strap tops inside. There were two pairs of jeans, both skinny and low-rise, clinging tightly to the body. Just to show off her ass, Juan thought.
She untied a drawstring pouch and pulled out seven or eight matching sets of bras and panties. Black satin trimmed with lace, pale purple with a U-shaped underwire (though she never wore low-cut tops—what was the point?), sheer ivory mesh (the way it dug into the nipples must have been torture), pink-and-white gingham with three-quarter cups and thick padding inside (just like an actress’s preference). The panties were nearly all sheer, mostly thongs, thin as mouse tails. She imagined the way they would wedge uncomfortably between skin and shuddered.Was this Ebony's preference? Juan strained to recall but couldn't remember how Ebony had been during their intimate moments. Not that it mattered anyway. They hadn't done it many times, both too restrained to ever grow comfortable with each other. Ebony had sought stolen pleasure but found none. Pressed against her, he'd been so fearful, pretending nonchalance while asking repeatedly: "Georgie didn't mention coming to see you today, did she?" This was the only phrase Juan remembered clearly, for it shattered her dream of crying out in passion and made her realize there was no hope of prying this man away from Georgie. Still, she persisted—baking cakes, simmering soups, bathing him after sex, helping him with his shoes before he left. She thought these gestures might make Ebony feel she loved him more than Georgie did, or at least that she'd make a better wife.
Then one morning, Ebony and Georgie appeared together at her doorstep. "We've decided to get married," Georgie announced, "and immigrate to Australia." Ebony smiled at Juan, not daring even a furtive glance. Juan invited them in for cheesecake—the same one Ebony had eaten just the previous afternoon, which he now praised identically. "Shall I be your bridesmaid?" Juan asked. "No need," Ebony immediately replied. "It'd be too much trouble for you to travel. I have a cousin in Sydney." "This is so sudden," Juan said. "I haven't had time to prepare a wedding gift." Georgie sat listlessly as if still half-asleep while Ebony answered: "Your good wishes are gift enough." Nodding with a smile, Juan thought: I should give him that wool vest he left here—that would show my true feelings. They drank lotus seed soup (also leftover from Ebony's visit the prior afternoon) before leaving. At the door, Georgie suddenly turned and hugged Juan. "Will you miss me?" In five years of friendship, this was the first time she'd ever inquired about Juan's feelings. Her lack of confidence in their bond showed. Touched by this rarity, Juan answered: "Yes."Juan picked up each piece of underwear one by one, examining them closely. They weren’t new—each had been worn for a long time. When Qiaoqisha was at home, she must have worn these too. So Juan thought, no matter what, Qiaoqisha’s passion for lingerie showed she still had love in her. Perhaps her relationship with Heitan wasn’t as bad as people said.
It was around the third month after they left that Heitan started calling her. The first time, he was timid, his words guarded. By the second and third calls, it became natural—at least once a week, with no real purpose, just idle chatter. Or, more accurately, listening to Heitan complain. He worked to support the family, paid for Qiaoqisha’s continued education, ate boxed lunches at noon, and worked overtime late into the night—it was exhausting. Meanwhile, Qiaoqisha only went to school three mornings a week and spent the rest of her time at home, yet she never cleaned. The place was a pigsty. Before they left, she had vowed to learn how to cook, but after half a year, the stove hadn’t even been touched. Only the microwave left by the landlord was in use, quickly growing dirty and worn, its turntable stained with milk and soy sauce. Every time Heitan came home and opened the door, he either found a room full of strangers at some inexplicable party, all wasted, furniture shoved into a corner, vomit crusted on the carpet, Qiaoqisha waving at him from a sea of heads—or he found the place empty, the bedroom looking like it had been ransacked, the vanity cluttered with toppled bottles, the wardrobe wide open, clothes spilling out like a flood, drowning the entire room.
How is anyone supposed to live like this?
Heitan repeated this phrase countless times, while Juan stayed silent on the other end. Yet minutes later, he would hang up and obediently return to that unlivable life.
They had phone sex a few times—during one of Heitan and Qiaoqisha’s cold wars, when they hadn’t been intimate in a long time. At least, that’s what Heitan claimed. The first time, their vocabulary was embarrassingly sparse, especially the verbs—just the same words repeated, making the whole thing dull and dry. Later, it got better. The words shifted with the momentum, speed and intensity coming through. She suspected Heitan, like her, had been reading a lot of porn online lately. In any case, she enjoyed it. In the midst of her own wild climax, she even caught a whiff of that long-lost, musky scent. Finally, she let out a moan without restraint, and Heitan responded eagerly. In that sense, their phone sex was far more successful than their real-life encounters.
Afterward, Heitan said, I’ve never been this happy before.
She giggled mockingly on her end, filled with a sense of victory. But that feeling lasted less than a minute before Heitan, in a deeply sentimental tone, added:
I regret not taking one of your panties with me when I left.
She laughed even harder, rolling off the sofa onto the floor. But as she laughed, tears burst out.
Why did he regret not taking her panties—just so he could masturbate with a better memory—instead of regretting leaving her in the first place?
Men were so afraid of failure that even their regrets only went one tiny step back.
She hung up, picked up her bra and panties from the floor, and as she put them on, she finally broke into sobs.Over a month later, they resumed their phone calls but did not sleep together again. Sometimes, she found herself ridiculous—why maintain this connection with Ebony, listening to his monotonous complaints? Yet, when it came to the current state of Georgette's life, her enthusiasm never waned. This curiosity had long taken root and could not be uprooted. This was how she chose to remember Georgette.
III
If she hadn’t rummaged all the way to the bottom of the suitcase, Juan would have missed that dress. It lay neatly folded beneath the laptop and toiletry bag. When she pulled it out, a strong scent of perfume wafted up—not the one Georgette used now. The dress probably hadn’t been washed, likely worn only once, the faint smell of new fabric still lingering. A Kenzo lemon-yellow dress, strikingly bright—Juan hadn’t seen anyone wear such a vibrant yellow since her teenage years. The top and bottom were pieced together with silk satin and chiffon, adorned with maroon and pine-green floral prints and smoky gray Japanese-style patterns. It had a seashell-shaped sleeve and a fitted, body-hugging hem that reached the ankles. She particularly noticed the deep, heart-shaped neckline, heavily ruffled and cut very low—the purple U-shaped wired bra must have been meant to pair with it. Juan held the dress against herself, eyeing the neckline, and suddenly felt irritated. She tossed the dress aside and went to the water dispenser, gulping down two mugs of water. Yet her gaze drifted back to the dress. Spread out on the floor, it looked like a small, fragrant flower field. Juan found it odd that the cat, unlike its usual habit of trampling over her clothes, carefully skirted around it. Even the cat sensed this dress was extraordinary.
She was certain Georgette would wear this dress to tomorrow’s wedding. The thought saddened her. They had agreed beforehand—the ceremony would be simple, with only close relatives and a few friends in attendance. Casual attire was fine. Now, Georgette was blatantly defying her. For the past five years, Juan had always yielded to Georgette, never stealing the spotlight. But this time—this was her wedding. Couldn’t Georgette yield just once? Though the dress wasn’t formal attire, it was far too flashy. And did the neckline really have to be that low? Just yesterday, Juan had tried on her wedding gown at the boutique. She had rented the most expensive one, studded with tiny diamonds, tightly cinching her chest, with a three-tiered tulip-shaped hem. Most importantly, the white was pristine, the fabric delicate to the touch—anyone with taste would know it was costly. But now, she suddenly felt that gown was tacky. No matter how pure the white, next to such a vibrant yellow, it would look dull and gray. Besides, that mass of white was meant to accentuate her grace and restraint, stiffly piled together, appearing bloated. That burst of yellow, though—free and passionate—could float about, shout or laugh wildly (she would, especially after drinking), and drunkenly lean into the man beside her. She and her cleavage would undoubtedly become the focal point of the entire wedding.Now, Juan was truly regretting agreeing to let Georgette attend the wedding. She had never intended to invite her—it was a mutual friend who had mentioned it. Georgette called and said she would come. Juan tried to decline politely, but Georgette insisted, "Blackwood and I are separated. I’m planning to move out, but I haven’t found a place yet. It’s the perfect time to go back home for a visit—it’s been a year and a half." Juan’s heart ached at the mention of the separation. Why hadn’t Blackwood said anything? He must still be trying to win Georgette back. Juan had been about to refuse again, but a few days earlier, Blackwood had told her that Georgette had flown to Korea to get her cheekbones augmented, wanting a more Euro-American look. "She looks awful now, like a monster," Blackwood had said. Out of sheer curiosity, Juan wanted to see for herself, and that was why she had agreed.
Because Georgette was coming, Juan changed the venue for the wedding banquet, picked a different dress, and moved the outdoor photoshoot from the park to the seaside. What was originally meant to be a simple affair suddenly became much grander. The only regret was that the wedding rings had already been bought, and the diamonds on them were disappointingly small.
IV
The phone rang. It was her mother:
"Do we still need the candlesticks? The wedding company is such a rip-off—charging so much for a few table candlesticks!" Her mother’s voice was shrill. Her aunt, who had gone with her, chimed in:
"If we don’t need them, fine, but no need to shout about it."
"Why do you always side with them instead of me?"
These two women in their fifties had been bickering nonstop since the train ride to Beijing—almost a full week of relentless arguing. Whether to take the subway or a taxi, whether to replace the turtle at the banquet, whether to exchange for new bills at the bank first or buy wedding candies first… Every little thing became a major dispute, argued over with gusto for hours. It was during this time that Juan suddenly realized how much her mother had aged. In her youth, her mother had been proud and looked down on her aunt for being vulgar and unfashionable. Now, she had grown old and become just like her aunt—both with the same plump figures, eating and speaking at the same rapid pace. The only saving grace was that Juan’s home couldn’t accommodate them, so they shuttled between the hotel and the wedding company during the day and stayed at Juan’s uncle’s place at night. This way, Juan barely had to see them.
Juan’s head throbbed painfully. She replied weakly:
"You decide."
"Then we won’t get them, okay?" her mother said.
Juan didn’t answer.
"Say something!"
"Mom," Juan finally said, "can we just cancel the wedding?"
"What are you talking about? Are you throwing a tantrum over a few candlesticks?"
"No, I just don’t want to do it anymore."
"Have you lost your mind? The invitations were sent out ages ago, and the deposit for the banquet hall is already paid!" Her mother’s voice roared through the phone.
Aunt chimed in again: "I've always said you spoiled Juan. You indulge her in everything. It would've been so much more convenient to hold the wedding in Qingdao. But she insisted on Beijing, makingMother clearly had an animosity towards Georgette, never allowing Juan to get too close to her. When Georgette eventually married and moved far away to Australia, Mother finally breathed a sigh of relief, saying, "That girl is too flashy. If she stayed around you, she’d take everything that rightfully belongs to you." Juan thought to herself, Whatever could be taken has long been taken already.
Mother was a woman who lived by illusions, convinced she had the best husband and daughter in the world. So when she discovered the affair with Owen Feng, she nearly lost her mind. Though she must have suspected it long before—otherwise, she wouldn’t have snooped through Juan’s text messages.
Heartbroken, Mother lamented, "That man is a full twenty years older than you, with a family and children of his own. Do you really think he’s serious? He’s just taking advantage of your youth, playing with your emotions! What a sin—he’ll get his retribution. Doesn’t he have a daughter too? When she grows up, she’ll be deceived by some older man, and then he’ll know exactly how it feels!"
Juan lifted her head and asked quietly, "Then if I’ve been deceived by an older man, does that mean it’s my father’s retribution?"
Mother froze for a moment before slapping Juan across the face. Then she broke down into uncontrollable sobs. She had never cried like this before, as if she were trying to expel all the stagnant water that had accumulated in her body from slow metabolism.
Even if she could cry herself thin, she could never cry her youth back.
Suddenly, Juan understood. Mother hadn’t been living in delusion all this time, nor was she as naive as she seemed. She had merely been concealing the truth, carefully maintaining appearances. Even if it was vanity, it was the crutch she relied on to survive—nothing to be ashamed of, just pitiable. Watching her mother weep uncontrollably, Juan saw her own future self. She didn’t believe this was retribution; more accurately, it was perhaps an inheritance passed down through generations. Vanity passed down, humility passed down. It all seemed clear to her now, so she stopped resisting and simply surrendered.
A few months later, Juan decided to marry Qingyang. He was introduced to her by Mother—the idle son of a high-ranking official, decent-looking, also a returnee from studying abroad. His family had funded a small company for him. Such an embroidered pillowcase was just the thing to satisfy the vanity of the entire family. Juan was simply exhausted. All those past relationships had been submerged underwater, hidden from sight. Having stayed submerged for too long, she wanted to surface for air. Besides, Qingyang had delicate hands, long legs, and striking phoenix eyes. They say daughters take after their fathers, and Juan could only hope to bear a beautiful daughter someday—so that even if she later met someone like Georgette, she wouldn’t feel too inferior. Of course, it would be best if she never met Georgette at all. The difference between her and Mother was that Mother had never had a friend like Georgette, so her illusions could remain relatively intact. Mother also had a strong capacity for self-healing. She never spoke of Owen Feng again, as if she had forgotten he ever existed.
When Juan checked her phone again, there were already nineteen missed calls from Mother.
VJuan still decided to try on that dress. It was indeed a bit too big for her—the chest area wouldn't fill out properly, leaving two folds of fabric bunched up. The neckline was far too low, unable to conceal the white bra underneath. She stepped closer to the mirror, gathering her hair and pinning it up at the back to expose her neck (she imagined Qiaoqisha would definitely style it this way). It looked dazzling. Juan couldn't help but admire Qiaoqisha's impeccable taste. Even if she had seen this dress in a department store, she might not have considered trying it on. She always instinctively avoided anything too flashy, feeling as though she and such things were incompatible. But now, she felt that she and this dress were a perfect match.
Juan thought she should wear this dress to see Oufeng. A sudden, inexplicable excitement surged through her. This afternoon, which had felt so dreary it was almost suffocating, finally regained some vitality. However, before going, she still needed to borrow Qiaoqisha’s U-shaped bra.
Dressed in the beautiful yellow dress, Juan sat in the Starbucks below Oufeng’s office building, sipping coffee. She had to wait until everyone in Oufeng’s company had left before she could go up. She had lost count of how many times she had waited like this. But it couldn’t have been too many—more often, she waited for him at home. Comparatively, waiting here was better. At most, she would take out her compact mirror to blot the oil from her nose with powder or reapply some lipstick. If she were at home, she would constantly change outfits in front of the mirror—whether to wear anything at all, whether to wear pajamas or proper clothes, which pajamas to wear. She would also casually scatter a few books on the coffee table, as if to show that she loved reading and wasn’t just waiting for him to arrive.
She refilled her Americano twice and ate a muffin. A text from her mother finally came—she had relented and stopped calling. She only reminded Juan to remember to cook the "Sweet Harmony Porridge" (with all the ingredients already prepared in the pot) after waking up the next morning. She also urged her to go to bed early. At 8:30, Oufeng finally called and told her to come up.As soon as Juan entered, Ou Feng locked the door behind her. He turned off all the lights and embraced her. She was annoyed because he hadn’t even taken the time to notice the dress she was wearing. His hands found the zipper at her back, pulled it all the way down, and stripped her bare. In the darkness, she heard the sound of another zipper, and then she felt him thrusting inside her desperately. Throughout this, she became a limp puppet again, devoid of sensation, entirely at his mercy. She thought of the conversation she’d had with Qiaoqisha that afternoon about condoms and felt utterly wretched. Every time a man stripped her naked, her mind went blank, as if she had died—unable to make a sound or move a muscle. So she had never once interrupted a man’s advances to ask for a condom.
The root of this, perhaps, traced back to her time in Toronto. During the first two years there, she watched Qiaoqisha cycle through boyfriends, spending nights with them, while she herself remained a chaste virgin. In this day and age, chastity was practically an insult—it implied being at a disadvantage in the competition, unwanted. She felt like overstocked goods on a shelf, gathering dust. The repression and deprivation of that period later made her blindly crave sex. No condom? No problem. No pleasure? No problem. No love? Also no problem. She was like an abandoned house, left vacant for too long, just hoping someone would visit—even if she knew some were only stopping by to rest.
But Ou Feng was different. Unlike the others, he wasn’t just passing through. Maybe he had been at first, but later he stayed long-term, becoming the master of the house. Of course, he didn’t know the history of this place, assuming only a handful of people had ever set foot inside. To men, Juan came across as reserved and shy, the kind of girl who was pure and well-behaved. And after being with Ou Feng, she did indeed become pure and well-behaved. At her core, she wasn’t promiscuous—just empty. Ou Feng’s presence filled that void.
But in its place came waiting. And what that waiting ultimately yielded was another kind of emptiness, though it was obscured by colorful promises. By the time Juan realized it, it was already too late. This man had made her more promises than anyone else in the world—and likely no one would ever surpass him. Maybe he was just naturally inclined to make promises, but Juan preferred to believe it was because he cared about her, that he had to keep making promises to win her heart.
He promised to take her to the outskirts to set off fireworks during the New Year. He promised to take her on a trip to Europe. He promised to divorce his wife. He promised to marry her. He promised to have a child with her. The fireworks promise went unfulfilled for two years. The others had open-ended deadlines—if she waited patiently, some might come true. After all, he had kept some promises, like giving her a puppy. So she played with the puppy while she waited. When the puppy died, she got a cat, grooming it while she continued waiting.
He made many promises, but the time they actually spent together was scarce. Each meeting was brief—just long enough for sex. Looking back on their relationship, it was nothing but one sexual encounter after another, so similar they eventually became formulaic.After one of their lovemaking sessions, Ou Feng fell asleep exhausted. Juan slipped out from under the quilt, propped herself up to light a cigarette, and silently watched him. Every time after sex, he would break out in a cold sweat, lying naked outside the covers to cool down. His body was always so warm, and when he held her, it felt incredibly comforting. It was precisely this warmth she sought—without it, she truly wouldn’t know how to survive the winter. Sunlight streamed in through the slightly parted curtains, falling on his belly and thighs. For the longest time, whenever they were together, it was always dark, devoid of light. It seemed she had never seen him as clearly as she did now. She gazed at him intently. His skin was so pale, perhaps due to declining testosterone. When he turned over, his skin trembled violently, like snow about to shake loose from a branch.
"Don’t you think middle-aged men carry a whiff of decay?" Qiao Qisha’s words surfaced again in her mind.
At this moment, she truly sensed that scent of decay. The man before her no longer had the strength to overturn his current life and start anew.
Juan finally made up her mind to leave.
Qing Yang seemed rather dull, making love like a woodpecker, but he still had plenty of time—enough time to grow old with her. It turned out vitality was so important; only it could stand against loneliness.
Lying on the cold office floor, Juan felt Ou Feng’s weakening spasms. She realized her throat was sore—she must have been screaming loudly again earlier. Just as he was about to pull out, she suddenly wrapped her arms tightly around his neck: "Stay inside a little longer." He didn’t move, still lying atop her. Juan added, "Don’t fall asleep. Let’s talk."
"Okay," Ou Feng panted.
"Do you love me?" Juan asked. She rarely posed such questions. But this sentence, as the start of a conversation out of nowhere, was indeed the most fitting.
"Of course."
"What do you love about me?"
"You’re young, beautiful, and very understanding."
"Oh." Juan responded softly, then said, "There are many girls younger and prettier than me, and they’d be just as understanding."
"But I don’t know them. I only know you. Our meeting was fate."
Juan fell silent. This answer truly disappointed her. He didn’t love them simply because he didn’t know them.
He had completely withdrawn from her body and was growing restless atop her. After sex, men instinctively sought to detach from women, as if ashamed of their earlier dependence. She tightened her arms, refusing to let him move. "Take me away. Live with me. Don’t just watch me marry someone else, okay?" Hot tears spilled onto his shoulder as Juan buried her face against him. The emotion in this moment was so genuine—if not love, then what was it? It was as if Juan had only just understood her own heart. She still couldn’t bear to let him go. Even if she was vain, even if she feared loneliness—if he agreed now, she could cast all that aside.Silly girl. He patted her, loosened her tightly clasped fingers, and climbed off her body. Reaching out, he wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I've told you before, I really want to be with you, but I need some time." He swayed as he stood up, took a cup, and walked to the water dispenser to get a drink. Juan lay on her back, seeing only Owen's upside-down legs—thick, short, and cold. In the darkness, they lost their distinctiveness; they could belong to any man. She could no longer claim them as her own.
Juan pulled her dress over herself. The satin wasn’t hers either; it couldn’t retain body heat, cooling faster than her skin. Slowly, she came to her senses. Just moments ago, she had lost herself in the moment, clinging to a faint hope that Owen might rescue her from her current life. She sat up and dressed, but her hair refused to stay pinned up properly.
"Are you getting married tomorrow?" Owen asked.
"Yes." Juan tied the sash behind her dress and wobbled to her feet.
"At that hotel you mentioned last time?"
"Yes." The hairpin scraped against her scalp as it slid through the twisted strands, sending a sharp sting through her.
"Shouldn’t you be at home today preparing, then?"
"Hmm?" Juan walked over and turned on the light. The cold, white glare was harsh. The time spent making love had been brief, yet long enough to grow accustomed to the dark. He stared straight at her. She felt he ought to comment on this beautiful dress.
"You know what?" Owen said. "I don’t think you’re getting married tomorrow. I think there’s no wedding at all. You’re just using this to scare me. You’re forcing my hand."
Juan stood in the corner, watching him. His expression was severe, as if reprimanding a lying schoolchild.
"Isn’t that right? I’ve suspected it for a while," Owen pressed.
Juan began to laugh coldly. The hairpin fell again, her hair unraveling.
"I don’t like this. These tricks don’t work on me," Owen said viciously.
"I really am getting married. Tomorrow." Juan picked up the hairpin, pulled open the door, and before leaving, turned back to say with deep sorrow:
"I wore my most beautiful dress today to say goodbye to you."
Owen looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her cleavage. His tense expression gradually softened, and he sighed. "If you insist on saying you’re getting married tomorrow, fine. I’ll go to that hotel at noon and watch you marry someone else from afar."
He stared at her intently, waiting for her to admit she was lying.
But Juan turned and walked out the door.
VI
Juan drove home. Night had fallen, and the overpass was clogged with cars. Streetlights, neon signs, and billboards all lit up at once—so bright, so crowded, it truly felt like the eve of a celebration. Encased in the heart of the congestion, it seemed as though everything was converging toward her, celebrating her wedding.Before her eyes, visions of the wedding began to appear. She stood on the stage exchanging rings with Qingyang, and through the hotel's floor-to-ceiling windows, she saw Oufeng standing outside. But his gaze wasn't on her—not even on the flower-adorned stage. His eyes were fixed on the yellow dress. The wearer of the yellow dress flitted through the crowd like a butterfly, spreading an intoxicating fragrance. She drifted aimlessly until she saw him. Through the bouquets and the glass, she saw him. Their eyes met. By the time Oufeng made his way to the entrance, the butterfly was already waiting there. They stuck out their tongues and began to kiss. How could they kiss before the couple on stage? No, they shouldn’t be kissing at all! She screamed, demanding they stop. But they were already in love, clinging to each other. Yet how could they possibly love each other? Oufeng, would you really want to spend your life with a woman whose silicone-filled cheeks forced a fake smile? Oh, Qiaoqisha, didn’t you despise the stale stench of middle-aged men? He’s too old to give you any real pleasure! In a fit of hysteria, she shook off Qingyang’s hand, rushed forward, and shouted at the crowd below, "Separate them! Separate them now!"
Juan’s emotions spiraled out of control. Waves of dizziness washed over her, and her vision darkened. She swerved the steering wheel, pulling onto the emergency lane, and slammed on the brakes. She needed to rest. Just for a moment. She opened the sunroof, leaned back in her seat, and slowly clawed her way out of the hallucination.
But some things weren’t hallucinations—they were about to happen. Tomorrow, Oufeng would come, and he would meet Qiaoqisha. Once he met her, he could fall in love with her. Juan had a terrible intuition that Oufeng would fall for Qiaoqisha. She had relied on the same intuition before, foreseeing the departures of the long-haired young man and Heitan. Each time, she refused to accept it, pushing forward until she crashed and bled.
The saddest part was that no one had ever seen her bleed. No one witnessed her devotion. Every time she fell in love, it was rushed—but it was always real. Even if it started from jealousy or emptiness, those feelings later carved deep into her flesh. And then, abruptly, they were ripped out by the roots.
In the rearview mirror, she saw a face that had collapsed, its expression utterly vacant. She sneered and said to the reflection, "Look at you. How could you ever be a bride like this?"
At nine o'clock the next morning, Qiaoqisha returned from outside, groggy from sleep, having turned off her alarm clock and inevitably ended up late. However, the bridal pickup ceremony should still be ongoing. She imagined the house packed with the groom's party, the groom perhaps answering tricky questions from the bride's relatives, racking his brains on how to break through and enter the bride's room. But after knocking for a long time, even shaking the double-happiness character pasted on the door, there was still no response. She suddenly remembered she had a key and took it out to open the door.
The house was silent and empty. On the table were sunflower seeds and wedding candies, but otherwise, it was no different from usual. Qiaoqisha was puzzled—had the bridal pickup ceremony even taken place? She walked into the bedroom, where the window was wide open, and the floor was covered in a golden-yellow mess. A large black cat lying on top of it warily opened its eyes. As she approached, she saw the yellow dress, torn into many strips—wide and narrow—scattered across the floor. She slowly crouched down, and the cat let out a "meow" before leaping up and darting under the bed.
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