Meng Ning was quite restrained.
The embrace didn’t last long. Meng Ning gently released Wen Zenian’s waist and slipped out of her arms. Wen Zenian had no idea how she managed it—when Meng Ning lifted her head, there wasn’t the slightest redness at the corners of her eyes. Aside from a faint damp spot on her shirt, no trace of those earlier tears remained.
But Meng Ning seemed a little embarrassed. “The toothpick beef tonight was pretty spicy, haha… ha.”
Wen Zenian curved her lips slightly.
Meng Ning ducked her head. “Starting from when I moved out.”
“Mm.” Wen Zenian responded with just that and turned to leave.
It was enough. The evening had been ordeal enough for both of them.
Wen Zenian rarely washed her own clothes, but after emerging from Meng Ning’s room, she headed straight for the laundry room. She stripped off her shirt and stuffed it into the washing machine.
How did this thing work, exactly?
She hadn’t touched it since buying the house. Crouching down, she fiddled with the controls and hit start. She simply couldn’t wait to wash away the shirt; she didn’t want a single one of Meng Ning’s tears left behind.
Why did trying out a romance have to begin with tears?
Wen Zenian fished a cigarette from her trouser pocket, only to realize the lighter she’d taken from the C Hotel had vanished again. Too lazy to put the cigarette away, she held it between her fingers and stared vacantly at the washing machine.
These modern machines were sleek—the dusky purple brushed-metal panel gleamed silently. Standing this close, Wen Zenian could barely hear a sound.
It was nothing like the rickety old machine at her grandparents’ place in Crane City Old Alley when she was a kid. That one was tiny; you had to prop open the top-loading lid to cram the clothes inside. The faded bean-paste-green paint had flaked away over the years, exposing coin-sized patches of coppery rust. When it ran, it rumbled and shook like the laundry was brawling inside.
It broke down all the time. Whenever it did, Grandma made her wash everything by hand.
Wen Zenian held the unlit cigarette up before her eyes. Winters in Crane City had no central heating; the water cut like knives. The chilblains from her childhood had vanished long ago, but oddly enough, her fingers still prickled with that dull ache come winter.
In chasing after Meng Ning like this, was she the one who couldn’t let Meng Ning go… or couldn’t let go of her younger self?
She was deep in these memories when a noise sounded at the door.
Meng Ning stood in the laundry room doorway, unprepared for the alluring sight that greeted her.
Wen Zenian’s slim trousers hugged her slender waist, the cuffs baring pale ankles. Her hair was pinned up neatly, without a strand astray. The eyeliner at her eye corners had smudged just a touch—a perfect imperfection that deepened her gaze into something rationally beautiful.
But Wen Zenian wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Black lace cupped her perfect curves; the snowy skin at her waist nearly dazzled the eye. An unlit cigarette dangled from her fingers. At the sound from the doorway, she turned her slender neck a fraction. Lost in thought, her eyes held a hint of bewilderment and cool detachment when they flicked over.
It was beauty at its extreme—a collision of restraint and allure, bold features vying against icy poise.
Meng Ning froze in the doorway. She watched awareness return to that gaze bit by bit, saw Wen Zenian arch a brow in silent question: What are you doing here?
“Oh.” Meng Ning explained. “I suddenly remembered the clothes I wore to the bar—they stink. I should bring them over.”
“I’m using the washing machine.” Wen Zenian tilted her chin toward it, cigarette in hand.
“Oh.” Meng Ning pivoted to leave. “Then I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Wait.” Wen Zenian stopped her, waggling slender white fingers. “You got a lighter?”
“Yeah, I’ll grab one for you.”
Meng Ning ducked back to her room, fetched her lighter, and returned to the laundry room. Wen Zenian stepped toward her and glanced down at it—the same old lighter as before. Inwardly, she grumbled: Meng Ning hadn’t left behind a thing… except this lighter.
She tilted her swanlike neck and leaned in close to Meng Ning.
Fresh from the shower, Meng Ning carried a clean, airy scent. Her long, straight black hair fell softly over her shoulders; with her head slightly bowed, it veiled half her face.
Wen Zenian lit up off the flame, drew in a breath of smoke, and asked Meng Ning, “What are you so nervous about?”
“I’m not nervous.” Meng Ning denied it.
Wen Zenian held the cigarette off to one side. With her free hand, she tucked a loose strand of Meng Ning’s hair behind her ear, exposing the flushed tip.
She never quite touched Meng Ning’s ear—just the brush of cool, warm fragrance drawing near then away, teasing every pore into a frenzy.
“No need to be nervous.” She leaned a fraction closer, her breath laced with tobacco. “Didn’t we agree to give dating a try? I won’t start things off with you like this.”
“Too erotic,” she added.
Meng Ning woke the next morning and first listened for sounds outside. Wen Zenian must have already left.
She sat on the bed, lost in a daze for a while.
“Let’s give it a try, okay?” Wen Zenian’s tone hadn’t felt like a request—not to her, at least. It had sounded more like a negotiation with fate itself.
There was no other way; they simply couldn’t let each other go. So they’d try—okay?
After talking it over with Qi Xiao, they set the move for four days later, when Qi Xiao was next off shift. In the meantime, Wen Zenian didn’t appear again. Life went on as usual: volunteering, cleaning the house, packing.
Meng Ning thought it over and ended up packing all the clothes Wen Zenian had bought her.
She hadn’t told Wen Zenian about moving day, planning to mention it afterward. But when Qi Xiao arrived to help haul the packed boxes downstairs, in walked Wen Zenian.
Meng Ning half-dreaded her saying something like, “Trying to run away?” But Wen Zenian didn’t.
She just asked mildly, “All packed up?”
Meng Ning nodded. “How did you know it was today?” Moving day, that was.
“A guess.”
Qi Xiao jumped in. “Uh, I’ll take this box down first. You two follow.”
Wen Zenian said, “To the garage. I’ll drive.”
Qi Xiao vanished in a flash.
Meng Ning gave the apartment one last sweep, double-checking nothing was left behind. Wen Zenian peered around too—and that was Meng Ning for you, always so thorough. Earlier, there’d been a vase of everlasting flowers on the dining table, bought by the assistant. It got in the way during meals, so Meng Ning had moved it to a side cabinet.
Now, on her way out, she’d set it right back on the table, perfectly centered.
The whole place bore no trace that Meng Ning had ever lived there.
Meng Ning asked, “What about the apartment? Sell it? Probably appreciate nicely, haha… ha.”
She always laughed when things got awkward. Wen Zenian shot her a look, and she faltered; the final “ha” escaped like a strained exhale from qigong practice.
She’d only wanted to lighten the mood.
At this point, maybe she should switch her nervous tic to “hehehe.” One glance from Wen Zenian, a hesitation, and it came out as a lone “heh”—practically demanded she wield nunchucks to match the vibe.
Her mind wandered absurdly, a smile tugging at her lips. Wen Zenian prompted, “Anything else you forgot? If not, let’s go.”
Oof. Ice cold.
Even with the aloof beauty walking her to the door, Meng Ning hadn’t told Wen Zenian about today precisely because she hadn’t wanted her to face this moment. No amount of joking could soften its sting.
She was about to delete her fingerprints from the smart lock.
Wen Zenian fell silent, head bowed, watching Meng Ning unlock the panel and tap through the menu with soft beeps.
Light from the entryway spilled down, making Meng Ning’s fingertips look almost translucent.
Suddenly, Wen Zenian felt a pang of regret.
She wanted to say: Don’t move out.
So what if their bond was tangled? So what if they were stuck in limbo? As long as every time she returned here, she could find Meng Ning curled up on the sofa, legs tucked under her, the black mandala tattoo peeking from the back of her neck—reading a novel, or just spacing out.
What if their “trial” ended badly?
She’d opened the cage herself. Could she ever lure back that exquisite bird?
Meng Ning paused at the final confirmation step, fingertips hovering. She asked softly, “Should I… delete it?”
Wen Zenian suddenly curved her lips.
It was like when you deleted a critical program and the computer insisted: “Are you sure?” or “Cancel?”
Did the computer know how cruel it was?
Did it know that a moment’s hesitation could snuff out courage forever?
Wen Zenian’s own hand reached out. A single tap would cancel it.
Meng Ning stood quietly at her side, hands limp, yielding entirely.
With swift precision, Wen Zenian tapped “Confirm.” She grabbed the luggage bag at Meng Ning’s feet. “Let’s go.”
They headed downstairs. Wen Zenian had already handed her car keys to Qi Xiao, who obligingly sat in the back, wearing a look of restrained gossip-hunger.
Wen Zenian slid into the driver’s seat.
Meng Ning sat quietly in the passenger seat, staring out the window the whole way.
Qi Xiao’s extrovert awkwardness flared up again. But what to talk about? Anything felt too loaded.
Then Wen Zenian called back, “Sharon.”
“Hm?”
“Sing a song.”
“…Ha?”
The car’s CD player sounded too sterile; nothing beat a real voice, warm with humanity.
“Wh-what should I sing…?”
“That one from last time.”
“Little puppy, be good, little puppy be good…”
Wen Zenian curved her lips. Her grip on the wheel was elegant; she turned at the intersection with the effortless stroke of an artist.
Qi Xiao got it. Her shoulders eased as she leaned back and hummed softly, “Little puppy be good, little puppy be good, do what you like…”
Spring had arrived outside. Sunlight slanted through the windows like glints on eyelashes. Fuschia and sandalwood bloomed in vivid swaths. Even in this subtropical monsoon zone, spring felt worlds apart from winter—the sky a flawless azure, glassy and bright.
What was the cruelest thing in life?
Not stumbling past a pivotal crossroads only to realize decades later it was your turning point.
No—the cruelest was knowing full well it was your turning point, yet passing it like any ordinary corner. Flowers bursting along the roadside, spring in full glory, a friend beside you chatting or humming along—so you smile lightly too, pretending it’s just another unremarkable turn.
If these two ended in heartbreak, years from now, this drive would be their bittersweet memory: Wen Zenian behind the wheel, hauling Meng Ning’s things to her new rental; Qi Xiao warbling nonsense nursery rhymes in the back.
