(From Issue 10)
Spicy Chicken Wings and Grandpa
That was the first time my grandpa took me to the nearby McDonald’s. He had never taken me there before—my parents didn’t allow it. They worried he might spoil me and buy me junk food. It was a cold early morning. I had stayed at my grandparents’ house the night before because Mom and Dad were away on a business trip that week, so I got the chance to stay with them for a week over winter break. When my mom talks about her childhood, there’s always a hint of bitterness. She often mentions how Grandpa was rarely home, always working in Tianjin, how she had no friends, and how strict Grandpa was whenever he was around. Mom is an only child, and her relationship with Grandma is closer than with anyone else in the family, even me. It’s hard to imagine her lonely childhood and the strictness of Grandpa. To me, Grandpa was always a thin old man who greeted me with a smile whenever I visited. He’s often surrounded by a thick white cloud of cigarette smoke, making it hard to see his face clearly.
Grandpa likes to wear a black suit jacket and perfectly tailored slacks. He sometimes paces around the house with his hands behind his back, his hair plastered neatly to his scalp. Every day, he goes on two long walks—one in the early morning and another after dinner. He walks slowly, constantly smoking, lighting the next cigarette with the last one. When he gets close to the house, he takes an extra slow lap, his steps heavy enough, it seems, to crush every ant along the way. That morning, I joined him for the first time on his early walk. It must have been around 6 a.m., though I can’t remember the exact time. The sky was still dark, and the streets were silent. I was sleepy but excited. Our plan wasn’t part of Grandpa’s usual routine. When he asked what I wanted for breakfast the day before, I had surprised him by suggesting McDonald’s—a place I knew Mom and Dad wouldn’t approve of. I was only eight, an age when small things felt monumental. This little rebellion was thrilling.
I got dressed quickly, not wasting a minute like I usually would in bed. Grandpa waited for me in the living room, a cigarette in his hand. “You know I can just bring you whatever you want,” he said, flicking his lighter on. I called back, “Just a second! I want to come with you. I’ll be ready in a minute.” I wasn’t sure he heard me as I struggled to put on my sweater, but I finally jumped out barefoot. Grandma scolded me, helping me dress warmly, worried I’d catch a chill. And then we left. The streetlights were still on when we arrived at McDonald’s. The place was empty—it was an early Saturday morning, after all. I had impulsively brought up the idea of McDonald’s the day before. I’m not sure why I chose it. Maybe it was a small rebellion, or maybe I just wanted to join Grandpa’s morning routine. Either way, I knew Grandpa would remember and say yes to anything I asked.
I ordered the spicy chicken wings I’d always wanted to try, though Mom always said they were too spicy for me. I also ordered a hot cup of black coffee, without sugar or milk. I can’t remember what Grandpa ordered, or if he ordered anything at all. We sat by the window with our food. The first bite of the spicy wings was okay, but the second was overwhelming. My mouth and throat burned; it was the spiciest thing I’d ever tasted. My brain buzzed, and my eyes blurred. “Water! Water!” I gasped. Grandpa handed me the black coffee, but it only made things worse, thickening the heat in my mouth. A few minutes later, he returned with a cup of cold water, and finally, my pain eased.
That’s all I remember about that morning. We left McDonald’s later, and on the way home, Grandpa wore an odd expression. He didn’t say much, didn’t even smoke. Now, thinking back, I realize he probably felt some regret. I remember the black mole between his eyebrows and the wrinkles around it, where all those sad and unspoken feelings seemed to gather. I don’t know why he always spoiled me, never refusing any of my requests. But now, maybe it was his way of making up for things he hadn’t done when he was a father. We never told anyone about that spicy “emergency”—it became a small secret between us. We shared many little secrets, like drinking milk tea even after he was diagnosed with diabetes, buying fireworks for New Year’s despite the ban, or cooking strange recipes he saw on TV. I know I’ll never fully understand my mom’s memories of him. But this is how I’ll remember Grandpa, forever.
Frog Friend
I met Xuanyu when I was 12. It was an awkward age, somewhere between childhood and being a teenager. Xuanyu was a year younger than me. We met at a speech contest that our parents had signed us up for. For some reason, our parents got along well and began meeting up often for dinners, always bringing us along, and that’s how Xuanyu and I grew close. For me, though, there was an odd sense of humiliation in having to spend time with a boy younger than me, as if I were babysitting him. But I liked Xuanyu’s mother. She spoke to me softly and slowly, often telling me how smart and pretty I was and how she wished she had a well-behaved daughter like me. She would take my hands in hers and repeat those compliments, which made me feel special. It was a feeling I never had with my own mom. Xuanyu’s mother made me feel like I could experience the closeness some girls have with their mothers, like going shopping together or laughing like friends. My mom, however, never let me hold her hand or even touch her. She barely smiled and, when I asked why, would say it would give her wrinkles. She liked to criticize me, and I can’t remember a single time she praised me. Being with her felt like a heavy fog hung between us. I hated looking into her eyes, with the deep folds in her large eyelids overlapping as if trying to swallow every word I said.
Although I didn’t enjoy spending time with Xuanyu or listening to the adults’ boring conversations at dinner, I still pretended to like these little gatherings. Xuanyu and I went to different primary schools, but we attended the same extracurricular class on weekends, which provided the perfect opportunity for our parents to meet up. I didn’t particularly like Xuanyu, but I kept the friendship so I could spend more time around his mother. Xuanyu, on the other hand, loved to follow me everywhere. He was a little shorter than me, and whenever we stood next to each other, he would stand on his tiptoes and say he’d be taller than me next year. I’d just smirk in response.
One shared ritual between us was that every Sunday after class, we would visit a small yard near the school. It was a cozy, garden-like space where the owner had moved water tanks and other things to the roadside to make more room. The stacked water tanks towered above us like a castle. At first, this place was my secret hideaway, but since Xuanyu always followed me, it gradually became “ours.” I especially liked the tank on the second level, filled with frog figurines of all shapes and sizes. Some had cartoonish, exaggerated eyes, while others were realistic, with smooth, ceramic-looking backs resting on green leaves. Among them was one real frog that stayed perfectly still, barely blinking. Xuanyu and I would just stand there, searching for the real frog, until our parents came to pick us up.
Sometimes, as we stood there, I had the urge to tell Xuanyu that I only hung out with him to spend more time with his mother. That was why I shared this secret hideaway with him—so his mother would see me too when she came to pick him up. I’d catch my reflection in the frog’s dark eyes, and the urge to confess would rise, but I never did.
A few weeks before winter break, the water tank had started to fog up. After staring at the frog for a while, Xuanyu asked, “Why doesn’t it move?” I thought for a moment and replied, “Maybe it’s getting ready to hibernate.” I turned to look at him and asked, “What if it never moves its whole life?” Xuanyu didn’t answer; he just looked surprised. It was the first time I’d asked him a question. That day, we held hands like real friends for the first time.
I don’t remember our last meal together. But I do remember that the last time we played, it wasn’t because I wanted to talk to his mother. We were chasing each other up and down the long restaurant staircase when I ran too fast and scraped the back of my calf on a step. Xuanyu’s mom took out a band-aid from her bag and applied it gently, smiling and telling us to slow down. She complimented my polka-dot dress, saying it was cute. On the other hand, my mom kept scolding me for being too wild, and when we got home, she continued saying I wasn’t behaving properly. Usually, her words would bring me to tears, but I didn’t cry that day. I just sat in my room, thinking about how, after winter break, I’d get to see Xuanyu again, visit the frog tank, and explore more together in spring.
After winter ended and we returned to school, I never saw Xuanyu again. Later, I found out his family had moved to Australia during the break because of his dad’s job. Since then, I haven’t seen Xuanyu or his mother again. Years later, I revisited that frog tank, which was still there. I stood there for a long time, trying to find the living frog among all the ceramic figures. But I couldn’t. I wondered if it had died or if it was never truly alive, just another statue among the rest.
Not a Big Deal
When I met him, I was just 17. He graduated from our high school, was known for his excellent grades, and had been accepted into the best local university. He was about 1.8 meters tall and loved playing basketball. I knew that many girls in high school had a crush on him. His skin was fair and smooth, unlike most of the boys who spent a lot of time playing sports on the court. Most people’s first impression of him was how clean and handsome he looked. At first, I didn’t pay him much attention, but since many girls around me wanted to be close to him, I, too, was swept up in this whirlpool and became more interested in him. Every year, he would come back to the school to share his college admission experience with younger students. The school principal liked him a lot, and he was a good speaker, not as unkempt as some other science students. He did well in college, too, and even received scholarships several times.
We had a few conversations at school. I humbly asked him for study advice: how to stay focused, how to study math, and how to stay calm during exams. He would bend down, nod, and answer my questions. His eyes would crinkle into crescent moons when he smiled, sometimes making it hard to see his pupils. Although he gave general answers, I pretended these were golden words of wisdom for me. After that, we often chatted on messaging apps. I’d send him math problems I could already solve, and he’d call to explain them. I wasn’t sure if he was that friendly with everyone, but I didn’t dare to ask. It was a time when we were both pretending, acting as if we were destined for each other.
One evening in the fall term, it was raining softly like a curtain after class, and he came to pick me up with an umbrella. It felt like we silently acknowledged our relationship that day, beginning a years-long performance. At the time, our high school didn’t support students dating; they thought it would distract them from their studies and potentially derail a girl’s future if it went wrong. His parents also disapproved of him dating me back then. His father even spoke with my father several times, and my father scolded me afterward. I remember bringing up breaking up several times, but we always continued after his persuasion. It became a cycle. I remember the disappointment in my father’s eyes, my mother crying, and my school ranking steadily dropping since then. He told me love was like that—you had to persist and ignore the objections of others. I occasionally brought him chocolates, keychains, or postcards as gifts, which I used all my pocket money for. That was my only proof of this love; for 2 years, thinking I would buy something nicer for him when I graduated from high school. I counted, it’s about 1200 RMB I spent. He never gave me anything; he taught me real love needs nothing to prove, and it’s okay not to buy him gifts. But every time he received anything, he looked so happy.
Around the second year, just a few months before my college entrance exam, I remember being in history class, seated by the window in the last few rows. From a distance, I saw his father hurriedly coming out of the teachers’ lounge. I had a bad feeling, but I kept telling myself that we hadn’t interacted much recently, so there shouldn’t be anything to worry about. Soon after, my class teacher appeared at the window. A man in his forties, he taught our political ethics and asked me to see him in his office after class. I didn’t hear anything during that class; all I could hear was my heart pounding like a drum until the bell rang.
It was lunchtime, and he was the only one in the office. He sat waiting for me and, without saying anything, showed me a picture on his phone. I remember that picture. It was from a few months ago, during the summer holidays, when the boy asked what my pajamas looked like, and I sent it to him. It was a royal blue gown with a pink elastic ribbon tied into a bow at the top, and my hair was down in the picture. I felt a tightness in my throat. My teacher stared at me through his brown-tinted glasses, me standing, him seated, and told me, “This was found by the boy’s father when he was fixing his phone. He said you sent it recently, and I advise you to focus on your studies and stop getting involved in these indecent things.” He said more, but my mind was filled with the lie that his father was telling. At the end, my teacher handed me a piece of wedding candy he’d received, waved me off, and told me my father was waiting at the school gate. I remember going home that day, where my father slapped me and accused me of seducing that boy. My cheek burned, but my father looked pained, as if he was ashamed. So, I didn’t cry that day.
After that, every time in ethics class, whenever my teacher looked at me through his brown-tinted glasses, I felt as though I was sitting there with nothing on, thinking of that day, that candy, and my burning right cheek.
Afterward, I had no more contact with that boy and I didn’t get into college. Until one day, I wrote down this story and posted it on social media. I wanted to let other girls see it. I didn’t include his name, only the school and the story. The post went viral, and many people in the comments asked me to reveal his name, but I didn’t; it was a name and story I didn’t want to remember. The next day, I received a message from his lawyer demanding that I take down the post, citing defamation. I agreed, asking how much he paid him, and the lawyer told me it takes about 1,200 yuan to hire him.
Little Bug for Mr. Chikamatsu
I failed to make that bug dead again for the third time that day. It was a tiny little bug, like a baby of a fly, but only smaller and a lot quieter when it flew around the office. It had a pair of thin, small wings, and its long, narrow black body was squeezed between them. I didn’t find it disgusting. Fruit flies disgusted me because they crawled out of sweet fruit, reminding me of decay. No, that little black bug that kept circling around us, whose name I didn’t even know, only made me feel annoyed because it aimlessly hovered around me.
My spot in the small office was in the second-to-last row, closest to the window. Before I started working each day, I always adjusted the two monitors on my desk to be angled a little narrower, but by the next day, they somehow magically shifted back to their original positions, like two electronic sunflowers stretching their necks to let my boss see what I’m doing behind the screens every day. I joined this company after graduating from high school. It was a very small company with just a few dozen employees, including the boss. I didn’t handle client business; most of my work involved doing monotonous, boring tasks in this cubicle. Half the time, I was slacking off, browsing novels, or watching videos, hiding behind my screens. Honestly, I wasn’t like that when I first started. That habit developed thanks to my neighbor, Mr. Chikamatsu, who sat next to me. I remember when I first arrived, I used to sit perfectly still without even daring to lean back in my chair. I was so nervous that even when I got tea from the break room, I’d sip it sneakily, and my phone stayed tucked away in the bottom drawer on the left.
The gradual change began on a typical Monday. I was craning my neck, focused on the Excel sheet I was working on. While I stared intently at the densely packed data, which looked like a swarm of ants, I reached for a document related to a Taiwan purchase request that was lying in the top right corner of my desk. Clearly, I didn’t grab the thin piece of paper properly, and it, stamped with a large red seal, slipped lightly from my hand and fell near Mr. Chikamatsu’s seat. As I immediately bent down to pick it up, I noticed he was watching a live stream of a video game on YouTube. It seemed he felt my gaze because he slightly swiveled in his chair and quickly clicked back to what looked like a work screen. That was the first time I had seen someone slacking off at work. Although, growing up, whether at school or at home, I had often sneaked comic books or novels into my little room, pretending to study while secretly fiddling with erasers or something or even napping in the back row with classmates in class, this moment stirred something different in me. For some reason I felt incredibly angry in that instant. Maybe I was mad at myself for working so hard when my salary wasn’t as high as his, or maybe it just felt unfair. I remember thinking how much I despised him for it. That Monday afternoon, I cursed him in my mind countless times, even though I knew how childish that was.
Then came Tuesday afternoon after lunch. It was a lazy, sun-drenched afternoon, with no urgent tasks to deal with and the boss away on a business trip. I remember that annoying little bug slowly appearing around my desk, though I just thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. Mr. Chikamatsu, sitting next to me, was unusually quiet that day. There were no fake mouse clicks or the usual head-bobbing while he spun in his chair. When I stood up to go to the break room to get some water, I realized he had been asleep at his desk for quite some time. He was very thin, and his wrinkled, blue-and-white striped shirt hung over him like a tent. His hair was messy, with greasy strands clumped together and sticking to the edges of his black-framed glasses. He looked like a little black bug without wings. I realized this was the first time I had really looked at this man, who both disgusted and annoyed me. I could almost imagine how he went home every day, sitting on a bed stained with grease, repeating the same routine day after day. That Tuesday afternoon, the entire office was quiet. Mr. Chikamatsu slept silently, and the others coming and going seemed to treat him as if he were invisible; no one bothered to wake him. For a moment, I wondered if he might be dead, but then I could see his thin chest slowly rising and falling, and a faint snore occasionally drifted over. I still found him detestable, especially that Tuesday afternoon.
In the mornings, before I woke up, I often remembered how my dad liked to say to me, “If there’s something on your mind, you’ll never oversleep.” When I was a child, whenever I overslept and was late, he would repeat this over and over. My mom, on the other hand, always liked to say, ‘You’re not like the others; you’re exceptional. You can do better, and if you don’t, it’s only because you’re not trying hard enough.’ I’ve always remembered these words, absorbed into my bones like meals I’ve eaten, with every strand of hair bearing the traces of their lessons. It’s hard for me to accept slacking off at work; it suggests I’m not focused, not exceptional, and no different from anyone else. It means I don’t care or that what I care about is beyond my ability to achieve.
But I know I was slowly blending into this place, just like that day when I stared at that little flying bug for hours, watching it crawl around and take off without ever killing it. That day was a Friday. Two days later, when I returned to my desk, I found a pile of black powder, like crushed Oreos, beneath my phone. I gently swept it away and threw it into the trash, unsure if it was just debris or the remains of the bug. That day, Mr. Chikamatsu was out sick, and his seat was empty. I realized that perhaps I didn’t dislike him; I was just afraid of becoming him.
Angles 