A Night in Yangzhou
1248 Words
On Friday, I packed my luggage with casual care and set out for Yangzhou with Shen Man. The drive from Nantong to Yangzhou was barely two hours—not long enough to be called a journey. Shen Man took the wheel, and I sat beside her, uncharacteristically quiet.
As usual, she piloted her little Mini like a UFO skimming dangerously close to the ground. Her normally soft, rounded face had hardened into a frozen cube of displeasure. Yes—I'd made her angry again.
We were supposed to leave at two in the afternoon. But by the time she found me, it was already five. For someone who treated punctuality like a sacred creed, my disregard for time was the ultimate sin. If one had to rewind and simplify the story—yes, I was late, and she was furious.
Once we exited the highway, the city greeted us with its night lights awakening. Yangzhou—this ancient garden city—seemed to be lovingly dusted by a gentle breeze. The moon hung lazily above, its reflection slipping across the car window like spilled silver. It was the kind of beauty that made you involuntarily soften.
I glanced at Shen Man—still cold as stone.
“Manman, the moon looks really beautiful tonight,” I said with playful bravado.
She shot me a quick glance, snorted, and kept her eyes on the road.
“How about I treat you to some Huaiyang cuisine tonight? Fragrant braised lion’s head meatballs—big, glossy, mouthwatering!” I patted her thigh as if sealing the deal.
“Oh? Let me guess—your treat, my money?” She rolled her eyes.
“My treat and my money—if you stop being mad. Otherwise, you pay. I’m not stupid enough to suffer losses.”
Before I could finish, she kicked me sharply with her high heel.
“Can’t you say one respectable thing? Just one?!”
“I want to seduce you,” I replied instantly, feeling oddly proud of myself.
“Get out.”
“I don’t know the address.”
“Run behind the car.”
“I don’t run marathons.”
I sighed and lit a cigarette, losing all motivation to continue bickering. The seductive night scenery outside the window suddenly felt more deserving of my attention.
…
“Hey. Still mad?” Shen Man nudged my arm gently.
I ignored her—eyes fixed on the dark world beyond the glass.
Just then, a red Porsche Boxster roared past us. A woman in the driver’s seat—hair flying, scarf trailing behind her—sped like a streak of rebellion into the night. She was too fast for me to see her face, but anyone who dared to drop the top in late autumn had to be living a dazzling life.
I twisted around for another look. All I caught was a blur—stretched like a comet through the streetlights.
Shen Man, thinking I was still sulking, decided to tease me instead.
“What are you staring at?”
“That woman in the Porsche. Didn’t you see her?”
Now she perked up. “No. Was she pretty?”
“No idea. But the hair, the attitude—pretty damn bold.”
“Aww, what a tragedy. That’s exactly my type. And I missed her.”
She looked heartbroken—dramatically so.
“Shameless hooligan. Maybe try cultivating some virtue,” I laughed, more convinced than ever that her orientation had taken a wild creative detour.
…
Later that night, after a feast of Huaiyang dishes, we returned to the hotel. Tomorrow was the official start of the S-Curve Challenge.
My role? Simple: Observe. Ask questions if anything confused me. Prepare myself to independently run the Nantong event next month. On paper, not much pressure. In my heart?
Different story.
Whenever I stay in a hotel, I have a habit—I sleep with the curtains open. In an unfamiliar city, I like falling asleep beneath the night sky. It helps quiet my thoughts.
Yet tonight in Yangzhou… I couldn’t sleep.
Maybe the moon was too beautiful—so unreal that I became greedy, wanting to chase it with my eyes until time itself forgot to move.
After tossing and turning, I put on my clothes and went to knock on Shen Man’s door. She wasn’t asleep either.
She opened the door wearing a silky pajama set that failed spectacularly to conceal her curves. A cigarette dangled between her fingers; a TV show babbled in the background. Coffee steamed softly on the bedside table.
“Senior, I can’t sleep,” I said, settling beside her bed and lighting another cigarette. She slid back under her blanket, still watching TV.
“What’s keeping you up?” she asked, absentmindedly.
I picked up the remote and turned the TV off.
“I came here. Now focus on me. Talk with me for a while,” I said with exaggerated seriousness.
She didn’t mind the interruption. Crushing out her cigarette, she gave a knowing smile.
“Lonely?”
Bullseye.
I nodded. “Why do people feel lonely?”
“If no one around you were paired off and happy, would you still feel lonely?” she asked.
I lit yet another cigarette. And suddenly, I understood.
Loneliness isn’t a real wound—it’s a bruise we paint onto ourselves when we envy the warmth others hold. The moment someone else seems happier… we create loneliness just to torture our own hearts.
Tonight—I was doing exactly that.
She patted my shoulder. “Stop overthinking. Get some rest.”
“I want to sleep with you. Can’t sleep alone.”
She only smiled—she’d grown numb to my flirtation after five long years of it.
I caught her smile and quickly added,
“I’ll grab my blanket. I’ll sleep on the sofa, promise.”
“Mm. Sofa only.”
“I swear on the beautiful moon—I will not sneak into your bed.”
I stood up and jogged to my room for the blanket.
Her lack of refusal? Proof. Her orientation was absolutely… questionable.
…
Lights off. Darkness rose. Loneliness brightened.
But only two meters away—Shen Man. And despite understanding the root of loneliness, I still couldn’t resist its pull. Having her near helped.
“Senior,” I whispered lightly toward her silhouette bathed in moonlight, “let me ask you something?”
“Mm?”
“Why did you choose to take me under your wing after graduation but send Wang Zi to that ad company?”
It wasn’t just Wang Zi who wondered—I’d been curious for a long time myself.
“You guess?” She turned those charming eyes toward me, smiling mischievously.
“If I could guess, why would I ask?”
She yawned, rolling to face the other side.
“I’m sleepy. You’d better be up on time tomorrow.”
Her refusal left me with a sigh.
Whatever her true reason was—only she knew.
The room was soaked in moonlight. Sleep was a stranger.
I put on my headphones and played David Tao’s Beach.
Too quiet a song. So quiet it made my soul float and drift away…
And in that drifting silence—
I thought of Mo Han again.
I wondered how she’d been, that quiet woman.
And whether the scarf and gloves she took with her… were keeping her warm.
- Writer
