The Peony Pavilion

 A rainy night. He came out from the convenience store again and again. Can’t remember the name of the cashier, can’t remember the brand of the noodle he bought, only remembered he came out from the store repeatedly, with the drizzling breezing bone-chilling cold.  

I played an opera called The Peony Pavilion. I discussed some religion with her before I left, and she took out a bible full of notes and wanted to give it to me, I pretended that I forgot the bible, leaving it on the couch. I cannot take it. The next day, she gave me three phone calls, but I did not pick up either of them. I found an excuse to prevaricate. After that, she never called.

He took out two bags of cherries from the fridge. I played The Peony Pavilion. I did not know why. I did not understand a single lyric from The Peony Pavilion. He asked what is this opera about, I said, maybe love and romance. He said this bag of cherries was better. I acquiesced. The cherries were soon finished, and he asked me how to say goodbye in Chinese. And then, I cannot remember what he said, his face blurred. The only thing I remembered was I moved my chair closer. He kept talking, and then he cried. But not before The Peony Pavilion stopped playing, he stopped crying, only left me crying, hypocritically.

He burned a cigarette before the convenience store and called a yellow taxi. Before he went to the car, the music was playing in the store should be The Peony Pavilion.