Chapter 26: “Pink Virus” Part 2

Too weary to debate logic, Cui Qijin gripped the arms of her wheelchair and fell silent. Chi Buyu, oblivious to her exhaustion, finished drying her hair and then retrieved the ice-pink ribbon. With evident delight, she fashioned a fresh bow onto the hairdryer.

She stowed it away and asked, “Did you feed Little Snail today?”

Cui Qijin fluttered her eyelashes. “Isn’t Little Snail in Bikini Bottom? Why would I feed it?”

“Oh, right,” Chi Buyu said, pausing oddly before continuing. “I forgot to tell you—I named your little turtle.”

She trailed off deliberately, as if inviting Cui Qijin to guess.

Composed as ever, Cui Qijin glanced at the Brazilian turtle gliding contentedly through its tank. After a few seconds of eerie eye contact with its tiny black eyes, she ventured, “If I’m right, you named it Little Snail.”

Chi Buyu snapped her fingers. “Bingo!”

Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, she blurted anxiously, “Wait—did it already have a name?”

Cui Qijin shot her a sidelong glance. “Does a Brazilian turtle need a name? It wouldn’t answer anyway.”

Undaunted, Chi Buyu declared, “Well, from now on, it’s Little Snail!”

“It’s not a snail.”

“I know. It’s Little Snail.”

“…”

Before her twenty-sixth birthday, Cui Qijin had never envisioned owning a Brazilian turtle named Little Snail. Nor had she imagined her hairdryer festooned with a pink bow. To her, such antics were pointless whimsy that muddied her clear-cut categorizations.

A turtle called Little Snail? Snail or turtle?

A hairdryer with a pink bow? Appliance or ornament?

And then there were the ever-changing bags perpetually slung on her wheelchair, trailing after her like faithful shadows. Bag or accessory? The spare pair of bunny slippers—for guests, or just for Chi Buyu’s visits?

These intrusions multiplied, infiltrating her neatly ordered world and defying classification. One afternoon nap plunged her into a nightmare: turtles morphing into snails, hairdryers into bows, wheelchairs into bags…

Each sprouted mouths and jagged teeth, cartoonish viruses straight from an animated plague, snarling and surging toward her in a tidal wave, poised to devour her alive.

She woke with her heart racing.

Maybe it was time to halt this eccentricity, to reinforce her personal boundaries. She clung to the wish from her twenty-sixth birthday night: a world that stayed forever unchanged.

Eyes wide open, she let the alarm chime twice. After countless rings, she slid from bed, resolved to discard the pink ribbon from the hairdryer. She’d barely loosened it halfway when the doorbell pealed. Sighing, she wheeled to the door.

It was Chi Buyu.

Today was their planned lunch date—Cui Qijin’s chance to settle her debt of favors.

Relief washed over Cui Qijin.

Chi Buyu sported the Lop-Eared Rabbit Princess Head hairstyle, her ears framed by two milky-white ribbon bows.

Yet her outfit was skimpy, that short skirt in particular: white bud-shaped pleats evoking the neighborhood tree’s freshest magnolia bloom, ready to waft away on the slightest breeze.

—In weather still too chilly for bare legs.

Cui Qijin’s opener: “Aren’t you cold?”

Perhaps self-conscious in her skirt, Chi Buyu clutched her petite bag primly, smoothed her soft curls, blinked her dewy eyes, and replied, “Not cold.”

Cui Qijin caught a whiff of Berlin Girl. Chi Buyu must really love that scent.

She parted her lips to comment but decided against policing her friend’s wardrobe. Too boundary-crossing.

Instead, she pivoted the wheelchair and fetched an extra thin blanket from the sofa for her lap.

Chi Buyu stepped inside, donned the white bunny slippers, and casually hooked her bag onto Cui Qijin’s wheelchair. She studied Cui Qijin intently, brow furrowing slightly. “It’s freezing out there today—are you heading out like that?”

Cui Qijin eyed the milky-white bag on her chair, her own chimney-neck deep-gray coat, then Chi Buyu’s skirt, and retorted bluntly, “What do you think?”

By then, Chi Buyu had circled behind the wheelchair out of sight. All Cui Qijin registered was the scent of sour plum.

The sour plum cleared her throat, morphing into cloyingly sweet plum syrup as she hemmed and hawed, “I think… well, maybe… perhaps you should wear a scarf. Ideally a red one.”

Cui Qijin understood.

That birthday-gift scarf from Chi Buyu remained unworn. Was it impolite to never use a present in the giver’s presence? Cui Qijin, unused to such celebrations, wasn’t sure.

Post-New Year, Chengdu’s weather had warmed, and her coat’s high neck made a scarf superfluous.

But afterward,

Chi Buyu fidgeted behind the chair, wordless—not her usual brisk self when offering hair washes—more like a bashful matryoshka doll.

Her fragrance swirled dizzyingly, an airborne haze prickling even the nape of Cui Qijin’s neck.

She unbuttoned her collar and surrendered. “Fine, I’ll wear it. Forgot.”

“Told you!” Chi Buyu crowed gleefully. “It is cold out—believe me!”

Cui Qijin glanced skeptically at the skirt, wheeled to the bedroom for yet another blanket over her legs, and emerged sporting the berry red scarf.

Her first official wear.

Under Chi Buyu’s scrutinizing stare, she averted her eyes awkwardly and prodded stiffly, “Ready to go?”

“No.” Chi Buyu grew solemn. “Why not tie it like last time?”

Cui Qijin glanced down. “Like what?”

“Like last time—it looks great!”

Chi Buyu insisted, then knelt before her, face intent. Cui Qijin recalled her fashion designer gig—details were her domain.

Resigned, she let Chi Buyu untie the scarf. Cool air kissed her neck; fine hairs prickled instantly.

Cui Qijin compressed her lips, face turning aside tensely. Her gaze snagged on Chi Buyu’s ear tips peeking through chestnut curls—flushed rosy from the wind.

Round and round the scarf went anew, infused with alien warmth and a subtle trace of Berlin Girl.

Cui Qijin coughed lightly.

Chi Buyu’s ear tips quivered.

Catching the motion, Cui Qijin’s eyes drifted to the red mole before Chi Buyu’s ear, half-veiled by strands. Impulsively, she asked, “Chi Buyu, can you wiggle your ears?”

Chi Buyu’s tips ducked into her hair.

Then came a muffled, defiant retort: “Cui Qijin, you’ve got a mole on your collarbone. Red one.”

The full-name shift was new, trailed by some garbled mutter—peculiar. Cui Qijin missed it, barely registering before her neck constricted.

The scarf tightened abruptly, hacking a cough from her.

Chi Buyu sprang up, clapping hands over her reddened ears, and yelped, “No way!”

Startled, Cui Qijin and her chair scooted back. “No way what?”

Chi Buyu jutted her chin stubbornly, uncovered her ears, loosened the scarf, and grumbled, “I can’t wiggle my ears. Don’t say silly things.”

Cui Qijin inspected the tidy knot, blanking on the pre-jump words. “Oh.” Then: “Now can we go?”

“Still no good.”

Chi Buyu reluctantly let go. Then she picked up her bag from the wheelchair and started rummaging through it.

“What’s wrong now?” Cui Qijin couldn’t understand why it still wasn’t okay.

“I need to check my makeup. I can’t just head out looking sloppy.”

Chi Buyu said it quite candidly.

She pulled out a cushion compact from her bag and patted some on in front of a small mirror, checking left and right. Once she was done with that, she grabbed her lipstick, applied a little, then pursed her lips together in a very natural, unselfconscious motion.

Unlike Chi Buyu, Cui Qijin rarely bothered with makeup when going out. A quick swipe of lipstick was usually enough for her. But today, out of respect for her friend, she’d already primed her face, applied lipstick, and even lined her eyes. There was nothing left for her to check.

She sat in her wheelchair and watched the entire touch-up process, propping her face in boredom. “Can you even see clearly without your glasses?”

Chi Buyu’s movements paused.

She had a sudden realization. “No wonder my skin looks so good today.”

She squinted into the small mirror for another look. After observing for a bit, she admitted she just couldn’t make it out clearly on her own. She turned to Cui Qijin. “Can you take a look for me?”

Cui Qijin felt a flicker of impatience. No wonder Chi Buyu was always late—she had to double-check her makeup, her outfit, her skin, and even inspect her companion. What a hassle.

But Cui Qijin said, “Squat down a little, then.”

Chi Buyu gathered her skirt and obediently crouched down slightly in front of her, blinking her eyes. “Your skin looks pretty good, actually.”

“Yours isn’t bad either.”

The scent of Berlin Girl wafted over. Cui Qijin wasn’t used to holding eye contact with people, so she tried not to let her gaze linger too long on Chi Buyu’s face. She avoided looking directly into her eyes, letting her attention drift briefly over the lower half—

The slightly lifted chin, the tightly pursed lips with the Cupid’s bow perfectly accentuated to look especially full, the guava-pink blush dusting the tip of her nose like a tipsy flush…

“How’s it look?” Chi Buyu suddenly asked, her lower face tense.

It’s pretty.

The words nearly slipped out in that instant, and Cui Qijin almost bit her own tongue. Heart pounding, she quickly shifted her gaze upward, spotting a single eyelash on Chi Buyu’s eyelid. She regained her composure in a flash and said calmly,

“There’s an eyelash on your eyelid.”

A completely objective assessment, grounded in fact. That was the right way to put it.

“Huh?”

Chi Buyu pulled out her small mirror and squinted at it, but she didn’t dare touch it recklessly. “Where? I can’t see it.”

Seeing her hesitate, Cui Qijin helpfully pointed to the spot on her own eyelid.

“Right here.”

Chi Buyu raised her hand uncertainly, hovering it in the air over her eyelid. “Here?”

Cui Qijin shifted her finger slightly to the left. “Here.”

Chi Buyu pursed her lips and adjusted her hand accordingly. “Here?”

Cui Qijin eyed the position of that eyelash. It had fallen in such a tricky spot, right amid Chi Buyu’s long lashes. One wrong move, and she’d smudge the carefully done eye makeup.

She checked the time on her phone: 16:57. Three minutes until their agreed-upon departure at five.

“Do you mind redoing your eye makeup later?”

She desperately wanted to leave right on schedule. But she also felt she should show some sincerity since she was the one treating. So she added,

“I can wait.”

Chi Buyu’s eyes widened, clearly thinking it wasn’t worth it. She pointed at her own eyes. “But this took me forever.”

“Never mind, then.”

Cui Qijin relaxed her furrowed brow. She lifted her hand slightly from beneath the thin blanket. At first, she instinctively reached out with her knuckle.

The bulky joint clearly wasn’t suited for such delicate work. One slip, and she’d ruin the lady’s pretty eye makeup.

So she switched to her fingertip instead.

The pad of her index finger gently brushed over the smooth skin, sweeping away the errant eyelash that had nearly delayed their punctual departure.

It happened quickly, yet somehow also felt drawn out.

“There. All good.”

She said, then tucked her hand back under the blanket and inspected Chi Buyu’s eye makeup. “Should be fine now.”

Chi Buyu said a slightly flustered “Okay” before snatching up her small mirror for a quick glance. She snapped it shut with a clap and shoved it into her bag. Clutching the bag, she waddled around to the back of the wheelchair like a penguin. It took her a long moment before she finally asked,

“Ready to go?”

Cui Qijin nonchalantly rubbed her fingers together. The eyelash was gone, but something fuzzy seemed to linger on her fingertip. A faint breeze made it itch.

“Let’s go.”

As she spoke, she waited for Chi Buyu’s muffled agreement from behind her. Glancing down, she noticed the red scarf at her neck and remembered Chi Buyu mentioning the little red mole on her collarbone.

Her throat moved uncomfortably in that moment. The next second, memories flooded back uncontrollably, and in a hazy recollection, one uncertain detail surfaced—

Chi Buyu had a birthmark on her ribs. Was it red too?