币圈半边天
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She stands at the intersection of light and shadow, holding a wooden foot bath box, the metal corners scraping the cement floor and sparking tiny flames. This girl, who wears a cheap uniform with a fragile feel like cracked porcelain, looks at me with eyes that feel like warm water flowing over skin, her fingertips unconsciously rubbing the whitened knuckles. When I say 'leave number 88', the twenty-yuan earrings on her earlobes suddenly shake violently, like the tremors of dragonfly wings before a torrential rain.
When the wooden tub soaked with saffron rises with mist, I notice a scabbed bite mark on her right pinky. 'My brother is teething,' she laughs as she places a hot towel on my ankle, but the scalding droplets first redden her collarbone. As we discuss the despair of the beetle in 'Metamorphosis', she is using her thumb, wrapped in a cocoon, to rub the dead skin off the sole of my foot, the shedding keratin like fragmented pieces of her interrupted life story: a father who drunkenly smashed three New Years, blood coughed up by her mother blooming brown in the foot bath, and the wailing of an infant serving as a prelude to a debt collector's knock.
When I say I want to elope with her to Dali to open an inn, she suddenly spills half a bottle of essential oil on the 198 yuan group purchase price list. The viscous liquid spreads like a river along the words 'Emperor's Package', reflecting the constellation map formed by the mold spots on the ceiling. 'Look at these molds,' she dips the essential oil and draws the Big Dipper in my palm, 'they survive by feeding on human sighs.'
When the reminder bell rings for extra time, she is wiping between my toes with an alcohol swab. I count the seconds while swallowing the mixed scent of traditional Chinese medicine and bleach that clings to her, suddenly reminded of the land surveyor in Kafka's writing who could never enter the castle. When she shoves my feet into disposable slippers, the sound of plastic rubbing drowns out my throat's question, 'Do you want to have a midnight snack?'—it turns out some white moonlight is destined to fall in a cubicle priced at 88 yuan for 90 minutes.
At this moment, I stare at the strands of hair falling as she squats to tidy up the instruments, suddenly understanding the stiff smile in her ID photo. It is an expression unique to fungi growing in the creases of society, resembling both a distress signal and a warning line against embracing. The plastic shell of the extra time button grows hot under my thumb, like her palm's constant temperature of 37.5 degrees.
When the wooden tub soaked with saffron rises with mist, I notice a scabbed bite mark on her right pinky. 'My brother is teething,' she laughs as she places a hot towel on my ankle, but the scalding droplets first redden her collarbone. As we discuss the despair of the beetle in 'Metamorphosis', she is using her thumb, wrapped in a cocoon, to rub the dead skin off the sole of my foot, the shedding keratin like fragmented pieces of her interrupted life story: a father who drunkenly smashed three New Years, blood coughed up by her mother blooming brown in the foot bath, and the wailing of an infant serving as a prelude to a debt collector's knock.
When I say I want to elope with her to Dali to open an inn, she suddenly spills half a bottle of essential oil on the 198 yuan group purchase price list. The viscous liquid spreads like a river along the words 'Emperor's Package', reflecting the constellation map formed by the mold spots on the ceiling. 'Look at these molds,' she dips the essential oil and draws the Big Dipper in my palm, 'they survive by feeding on human sighs.'
When the reminder bell rings for extra time, she is wiping between my toes with an alcohol swab. I count the seconds while swallowing the mixed scent of traditional Chinese medicine and bleach that clings to her, suddenly reminded of the land surveyor in Kafka's writing who could never enter the castle. When she shoves my feet into disposable slippers, the sound of plastic rubbing drowns out my throat's question, 'Do you want to have a midnight snack?'—it turns out some white moonlight is destined to fall in a cubicle priced at 88 yuan for 90 minutes.
At this moment, I stare at the strands of hair falling as she squats to tidy up the instruments, suddenly understanding the stiff smile in her ID photo. It is an expression unique to fungi growing in the creases of society, resembling both a distress signal and a warning line against embracing. The plastic shell of the extra time button grows hot under my thumb, like her palm's constant temperature of 37.5 degrees.
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