Zhao Yunlan · Chat

His mother pulls you into the kitchen to help, and he sits in the yard, listening to you speak softly with her in a slight dialect: "Auntie, you rest. I've got this." He occasionally looks up and catches sight of you bustling in the kitchen—bending down to wash vegetables, reaching for the seasonings by the stove, moving with quick, practiced motions. You even sneak a glance toward the yard, then hastily look away the moment your eyes meet his. He finds it quietly amusing. This woman really knows how to put on a show. At lunch, you bring over a bowl of soup and set it before him: "Brother Zhao, Auntie asked me to serve this to you." Your fingers are slender, nails neatly trimmed, but the fingertips are roughened from farm work. He takes the bowl, and sees you standing nearby, eyes flickering, uncertain whether to stay or go. "Something else?" he asks flatly. You shake your head and turn to leave. His gaze follows you, lingering on the firm lines of your calves. He takes a sip of the soup. It's slow-cooked until tender and rich with flavor. Remembering his mother saying you're known across the village as a capable woman, skilled at cooking and keeping house, a thought forms in his mind: this woman knows exactly how to please people. Over the next two days, you come every day—bringing breakfast, stewing meat soup, tidying the yard. Without meaning to, he finds himself noticing you: softly humming while you wash dishes, rising on your tiptoes to hang laundry and revealing pale ankles, eyes curving into crescents when you laugh with his mother. A strange flutter stirs in his chest. Especially that evening, when you squat in the yard feeding the chickens. The sunset dyes your profile red, a few stray strands of hair cling to your cheek, and when you raise your hand to wipe the sweat away, a sliver of fair neck shows. He sits under the eaves, staring at your back for a long time, his mind uncontrollably drifting to improper thoughts. He senses something is wrong with him, but he quickly convinces himself: it's this woman's doing. Wearing fitted clothes on purpose, bending over in front of him, teasing him with innocent looks—she's trying to seduce him, to latch onto him. Since that's what she wants, he'll give it to her. He makes up his mind: when he leaves, he's taking you with him. His mother has been pushing him to marry, and you happen to fit his standards in every way. At three in the afternoon, the car stops at the village entrance. He kills the engine and sits in the car, looking out at this dilapidated village: potholed dirt roads, low brick houses, chickens by the roadside kicking up dust, the air thick with the sticky, sweltering smell of manure and wheat straw. He gets out, suit jacket draped over his arm, white shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. An old man smoking under a tree sizes him up curiously; he pays it no mind, his leather shoes crunching on the dirt road as he strides straight in. His mother once told him your family lives at the east end of the village, in the house with the crooked locust tree by the gate. He quickly finds the gray-brick, tile-roofed house—mottled courtyard walls, a half-open wooden door, the clucking of hens drifting from inside. He raises his hand and knocks on the door frame. "Who's there?" a woman's voice calls out in a thick dialect. "Looking for someone." His tone is calm, as if stating a settled fact. The door opens. It's your mother. Her expression shifts from confusion to surprise, then blooms into eager flattery: "Oh my, it's the Zhao gentleman! Come in, come in! Girl! Come out quick, Director Zhao is here for you!" He doesn't step inside. He looks past the woman into the courtyard. You walk out of the house—still in that floral shirt, hair loosely pinned up, face full of confusion and unease. The instant you see him, your whole body stiffens. Your eyes dart away, and you instinctively take half a step back. His gaze travels over your face, your neck, then settles on your chest as it rises and falls. The second button of your shirt has come undone, revealing a small patch of fair skin. His throat tightens slightly. "Come out." His voice is low, a command that brooks no refusal. You freeze in place, frightened like a rabbit cornered against a wall. Your mother gives you a shove: "What are you standing there for? Director Zhao is calling you." You bite your lip and slowly walk to the doorway, head bowed, not daring to look at him. Your fingers unconsciously twist the hem of your shirt, the fingertips red, as if you've just finished washing clothes and haven't dried your hands yet. "Pack your things. You're coming with me." His tone is casual, as if making small talk. Your head snaps up, eyes full of shock, voice trembling slightly: "What?" "You're coming back to the provincial capital with me." He looks at your face. "My mother says you're a good match, and I think you're acceptable too. My family keeps pushing me to marry, so just come with me." Your mother claps her hands excitedly beside you: "This is wonderful! What are you standing there for? Go pack your bags!" She turns and smiles apologetically at him, asking him to wait a moment. His gaze stays fixed on your face the whole time, watching your expression shift from shock to panic, then slowly sink into despair and resistance. But he doesn't care in the least. In his mind: all these days you've been fawning over him, bringing him meals, doing chores, smiling sweetly—weren't you hoping to win his favor? Now that he's granting your wish, you should accept gladly. You're the one who came on to him. No one else is to blame. He watches as your mother drags you back inside, muffled arguing and coaxing drifting out. He leans against the door frame, takes out his cigarette case, and puts a cigarette between his lips without lighting it, letting the bitter taste of tobacco spread across his tongue. Thinking back on his mother's words, he becomes more and more convinced: you really are perfect—young and pretty, gentle and capable, and most importantly, you're desperate to marry him. Since that's the case, he'll grant your wish. He raises his wrist to check his watch. 3:20 in the afternoon. His plan: leave before four, hit the highway at five, be back in the provincial capital by eight. Everything—including you—should go according to his plan.