Perfect Girlfriends

A Chance Encounter at the Bar

For some reason, seeing that chubby-cheeked, innocent smile instantly melted my irritation. Wang Mengmeng—who was she? Just one of the girls who, in my imagination, could inspire me to buy a car, a house, and marry her someday: the third of my naïve girlfriends.

“Didn’t your mother forbid you from seeing me?” I muttered, shifting my body to free myself from Wang Mengmeng perched on my lap.

“She can’t watch me twenty-four hours a day. Xi Xi, do you miss me?” She clung stubbornly.

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

Pouting, Wang Mengmeng reluctantly slid off me. Finally, freedom. Wang Zi tugged her back onto the sofa.

“Mengmeng, if I have a car and a house, would you marry me then?” he teased.

“Are you kidding? I’m your cousin,” she shot back, shaking off his hand.

Their conversation nearly made me stumble to the floor. That rascal Wang Zi—no shame at all. I knew he was teasing, but she was his own sister. Not everything is fair game for jokes!

I strode away, my feelings for Wang Mengmeng murky and undefined. Maybe our closeness only existed because of Wang Zi’s antics. Romance? That would be a blackly comic accident.

I smoked a cigarette alone in the bathroom before stepping out. Passing a shadowed corner, I caught the faint strains of a familiar ringtone:

"I think I can live alone, I think I can pretend I never loved, in the cold night letting tears warm me, I think I can get used to living alone, erasing your promises from memory, love is a dream and I overslept..."

A sudden pang stirred in my chest. Following the sound, I saw her. Amid the chaos of the bar, she sat quietly at a corner table, several half-empty bottles strewn haphazardly around her.

In the days since, her image haunted my mind, inexplicably, though I had never expected to meet her again.

The phone continued its ringing. A thought flashed in my mind: Could it be that our fate hasn’t yet run its course?

I approached, gently nudging her. No response. She was utterly drunk.

“Sir, do you know this lady?” a waiter asked.

I paused. “She’s a friend of mine.”

“Perfect…” The waiter trailed off, unsure how to continue, but I understood. Mo Han, drunk at their bar, was a problem. And I could solve that problem—how convenient!

I nodded, taking control. He bowed quickly. “She’s been sitting here drinking since evening… drinking like this is harmful.” He hesitated, probably mistaking me for her boyfriend and trying to warn me to take care.

I smiled, nodding again, marveling at the power of beauty. If she were someone like Feng Jie, they’d toss her out the door or into a trash bin—no second thoughts about the consequences.

I escorted Mo Han to Wang Zi. Ignoring eighteen curious eyes, I said, “A friend had too much to drink; I’m taking her home.”

Wang Mengmeng reacted fiercely, standing in my way. Her round, babyish face hardened with scrutiny.

“Xi Xi… who is she?” Her gaze shifted to Mo Han, scanning, trying to decipher her. But Mo Han’s face, hidden beneath cascading hair, revealed nothing.

“Why am I even annoyed?” I muttered to Wang Mengmeng.

She pouted, staring at me. I addressed Wang Zi: “Handle your sister, bro—I’m outta here.”

Wang Zi grabbed her, yelling over his shoulder: “Your mom won’t let you marry him anyway—why do you care who that girl is?”

After that ambiguous night, encountering Mo Han again filled me with joy, tinged with curiosity. What had she endured? Alone, in a strange city, a strange bar, from evening to night, drinking endlessly… her soul seemed to be running wild. Could love truly torment someone so?

I brushed her hair from her eyes. Even in sleep, her face wore worry. Her emotion reached me. Before seeing her, I had numbed myself to love’s pain, but now I felt it deeply, rousing the latent, gut-wrenching ache inside.

Overwhelmed, I stepped onto the balcony, lit a cigarette, and let the wind whisper past me.

Single life—reckless, wild, seemingly strong—masked fragility. Fragility that refused to let others see your suffering. Fragility that avoided confronting pain. Over time, pain mutates. And these mutated wounds finally explode, tearing at old scars.

I lived in a small studio apartment. I gave my lone bed to Mo Han, helped her off her shoes and jacket, tucked her in, and lay on the floor beside her.

It was our second night alone. But unlike before, the thrill was absent. Perhaps her dire state had infected me. For the first time, I confronted my own life. Compared to her, mine was equally bleak. In that sense, we were kindred spirits.

In the darkness, my mind wandered freely. If Mo Han were my girlfriend, could we turn negative experiences into something positive? Perhaps, having endured heartbreak, I could protect her. We could be companions of the soul.

I laughed quietly at myself. I overthought things. The black jacket she left behind—its worth alone matched a month of my salary. Material disparity alone could make me hesitate. Long ago, I stopped hoping for a love that transcended material bounds. In this world, such love was far too rare, and luck like that seemed impossible.

I had never let a Sunday spoil my mood. Rest days were sacred; frowning on them felt like sacrilege. But today, I desecrated it.

The weather mirrored my feelings—gloomy, unyielding. Mo Han had left again, silently, one rainy morning. Impulsively, I wanted to chase her, but a note stopped me:

"Thank you for taking me in. I used your scarf and gloves—it’s really cold outside. Until we meet again."

She left without curiosity about why she had been at my place.

“Until we meet again,” I muttered repeatedly. Could we truly meet again? Sometimes, parting is forever. Apart from her name, I had no contact. If she left Nantong, I doubted fortune would bring her back into my life.