Chapter 18 Jin Qi: Like a rose red rose in summer

On the sixth day of the third month of the lunar calendar that year, early spring, the weather was still a bit chilly, and it often rained.This is my second year in Shanghai, and I am a graduate student of Chinese as a foreign language. The sixth day of March is my birthday. My mother called me early in the morning and said, "Take good care of yourself." Then she asked Cheng Nan, and I said, "We broke up."Mom hesitated for a moment on the other end of the phone and said, "Then you have to take good care of yourself." I laughed. Because I am a student, my life is very simple. In addition, there are not many classes every day, so the time is empty for a long time.This is also the reason why I never want to leave the campus. For example, I can sit quietly under the tree after lunch for a while like now. Therefore, I can often hear the sound of time passing by. Sometimes I like it very much, and sometimes I am very sad.

The phone rang suddenly, and it was Cheng Nan's text message: Happy birthday!I'm not by your side, you have to take care of yourself. I watched for a while, and slowly deleted the message from my phone, followed by the name. The shepherd in early spring is not warm enough. I sat on the stone bench, and there was a sparrow not far away, jumping back and forth, very busy.My hair has grown to my waist, I thought about it, got up and walked outside the school. The road from the school gate to the south has been walked too many times. There are old-looking sycamore trees growing on both sides of the road. They have just experienced winter and their branches and leaves are not very lush.The ground was not completely dry because of the rain, and I carefully avoided puddles until I entered the clean and bright barber shop.

Ah Liang is from Hong Kong. Seeing me greet me cheerfully, he asked me in non-standard Mandarin: "Will you wash up?" "Cut it off." I answered him. "Cut it off? Why cut it off? It's so long..." He fiddled with my hair to ask me in the mirror. "I don't want it anymore... I don't want to stay anymore." I looked at A Liang in the mirror, he looked really cute when he was serious. Every man is cuter than Cheng Nan, any one. After washing my hair, I sat in front of the mirror again.Look carefully at this face, it is really ordinary, can not find a trace of beautiful details. (Beauty is close to hallucination, slightly impermanent.)

Seeing the things that belonged to me being removed from my body bit by bit with the sound of "click", I felt a certain loss, but there was no pain, and there was no hesitation. "Break the sword to cut off love..." A Liang suddenly said softly in front of me. I smile. Really not, I don't care.It's almost impossible to remember how we got together with Cheng Nan. It was a mistake in the first place (it was always at the end of the road that we discovered one mistake after another).Mistakes have long been dormant in it, just like all the traces and omissions before, a long time, positions waiting for an ending.But why does he always choose?Cheng Nan had unremittingly chosen me, and when he received a scholarship from the University of Los Angeles, he chose the United States without hesitation.

But I really can't think of any reason to justly leave one person by the other's side, say "love" or "please"?He must have developed well in the United States, otherwise he wouldn’t have the spare time to remember me—in the face of fame and fortune, falling in love is always absurd in the end. Looking in the mirror again, I saw that my appearance was completely different: my hair was cut to the root of my ears, parted from the front third of my forehead, and the thin hair on both sides was clipped behind my ears. . . . . . Throwing away is rebirth, as it turned out, a simple choice can start again.Cheng Nan just understood the common sense of the world earlier than me.

Saying goodbye to Ah Liang, I habitually walked in the direction of "Always".In the small bookstore on the second floor not far from the school, you can drink tea and coffee on the first floor, and there are more comfortable reclining chairs on the second floor for reading.Soon after I arrived in Shanghai, I became a frequent visitor here. Chu Pingwang is the owner of the bookstore, and Miyun is the only clerk here. Before Miyun came, Chu Pingwang asked me to come here to help, and I didn't want to make my friendship too complicated, not to mention that I'm not short of money like most students, I'd rather come and sit at any time like an ordinary customer.Life is for enjoying, not for hard work.

Chu Pingwang often gives me the feeling of being "too" cheerful, and his casual generosity is doubtful.I believe that the people who open such a bookstore must not do it for money, at least they must be able to control money to have such a vision and taste. The two floors of the bookstore are surrounded by bookshelves, filled with books from the ground floor to the ceiling, covering various fields, as well as some original novels and magazines.There are small square tables in the middle of the ground floor, each table has lamps, and the matching chairs are small and exquisite, with cushions in winter and summer mats, which are comfortable in height.Upstairs from the stairs at the side corner, there are more comfortable long tables and reclining chairs. There is a small stereo next to the reclining chairs, matching headphones, and you can bring your own CD to play.This is not so much a bookstore as it is a small library.The smell of wooden furniture and books in the store, together with the aroma of tea and coffee, makes people feel happy and believe that life will be abundant from then on.

Looking out from the south-facing window on the second floor, you can see courtyards surrounded by ivy at the back of the street. Sometimes when you look at it, you will think that life is the same as Shunyi, and there is no difference between the four seasons.That time, Pingwang pointed to the window and said to me: "Qingchen, whether you come or not, this seat will be reserved for you." While speaking, I saw Miyun behind him, looking at me cautiously. As soon as I stepped into "Always", Pingwang came to greet me: "Qingchen, did you cut your hair?" I happily turned around in front of him and asked, "How is it?"

"Not bad, very good, like a student." "I was originally a student, didn't I look like I used to?" I asked him. Ping Wangan looked at me quietly and said, "I used to drag myself down." I clearly understood, but I deliberately asked: "What kind of drag is hair?" He laughed and yelled, "Ah, happy birthday!" Miyun brought out a tray from the inside, which contained a small cake with a candle and a wrapped present.I was overwhelmed with surprise, my tears were wet, Pingwang sang birthday song for me in the bookstore indifferently, I smiled and blew out the candles in front of them, many customers in the store applauded.I was a little shy, but Ping Wang was very generous and said: "Today is my good friend Ms. Qi Qingchen's birthday. We invite everyone here to have a small cake to celebrate..."

I didn't speak, walked to the side silently, opened the present, it was a rose red Apple MP3, very beautiful.I said to King Ping, "You actually know my birthday..." "Miyun told me, haha...don't say anything, I'll take you to the door to take a picture as a souvenir..." He took out a digital camera from his pocket and pulled me out outside the door. The surrounding fences are covered with green vines, and the green branches are filled with the breath of spring.Pingwang saw it and said, "It's good here, you can see spring." So I faced Pingwang, standing in the verdant green money, and when Pingwang said "smile" to me, I saw him. . . . . .

(In retrospect, it seemed as if I really saw spring at that moment.) A little farther away from us, on the right side of the door of the bookstore, he was wearing jeans and a dark blue thin velvet plaid shirt, with a cigarette in his hand, and a bottle of orange juice on the ground beside him, sitting just like that on the old steps.Behind him is an abandoned gray-green iron gate, stained with rust (and his blue is a dark blue).He didn't seem to see us, he watched. . . . . .Another direction, quiet and lonely.At that moment, I could feel his silence, as if a person in a distant place was walking slowly, but it was always difficult to reach the shore. (Many times, people cannot live in moist water as they wish, so there will be longing and dryness. Even if there are temporary docks on both sides, the lonely traveler still has to walk alone on the slow and endless road.) I heard a "click", and Ping Wang immediately flipped through the photos and murmured, "Where are you looking?" I walked up, and in the photo I looked dazed, and the rose-red coat was contrasted by green plants. , the hair on one side was blown by the wind, but the eyes looked into the distance. Looking back at the steps, that person has disappeared. I followed Pingwang back to the bookstore, ordered a cup of green tea and brought it to the second floor.Looking out of the window from this position, the eyes are full of greenery, and the burgeoning vigor is moving.Suddenly, a dark blue figure flashed in the vine-covered courtyard. . . . . .The green vines are so happy, amidst the wind, spring is here. I often come to "Always" in the afternoon, and at this time Ping Wang is usually not there, he has his own job, as for what he does, I am not curious (I am not curious about him at all).The atmosphere of the bookstore puts me at ease, and for me, reading is a kind of belonging, whether it is academic or private reading.When I am tired from reading, I will play a CD I brought with me. The sky is high and blue, as calm as a mirror, but I hear a voice in my heart asking myself repeatedly: The world is so big, where will I go? When we see that person again, we are only a few feet away.He was sitting by the north window, wearing a gray thin velvet shirt, with orange juice on the table, he seemed to be writing, writing very slowly, looking out of the window from time to time, writing on and off, writing all afternoon, and going out in the middle Once, I followed him out, and like last time, he sat on the steps and smoked a cigarette looking into the distance.When I returned to the second floor of the bookstore and sat back in my seat, he would come back soon, and I continued to observe him secretly. He has a pair of beautiful eyes, and when looking at the paper, his brows are furrowed, just like his tightly closed lips, he has a habit of silence.The hair is cut short, exposing the forehead.Whenever he looks out of the window, I can feel the distance, just like every time I sit under the tree on the campus, I feel time passing by. It was getting darker and darker, and finally he got up, throwing the few manuscript papers on his desk into the wastebasket.After walking down the stairs, he was tall and very thin. After he left, I curiously picked up the few pieces of manuscript paper from the wastebasket. It turned out that he was not writing, but drawing.Several sheets of white paper are covered with petals, very large petals, horizontally, vertically, and sideways. . . . . .Because there is no complete flower, I can't recognize what flower it is.However, they all seem to be. . .Withered feeling. In spring, do the flowers wither? Does he paint?What is his name?Who is he? I looked at the courtyard from the window, but the lights in the house were not on. Could it be that he doesn't live there? Unless I am in class, I come here every afternoon and sit here and read a book.He comes here almost every day, and I can often meet him.Spring is not a day for reading, so there are always very few people in the spring bookstore. Every time he sits by the window, he draws every day, and every day he draws those fragmented petals.Sometimes, he clasped his fingers, looked out of the window, lost his mind for a long time, and I could clearly see his fingers, pale and slender, with a kind of painful tranquility. Every day I put away the manuscript paper he dropped, and the white petals with pencil outlines on it, one by one, seemed to be scattered on the snow.I can even discern their respective emotions, sometimes gentle and beautiful, sometimes full of passion, sometimes bright and happy, sometimes melancholic and compassionate, and sometimes they are weak and miserable. . . . . .I carefully wrote down the date of the day on each piece of manuscript paper.I always carry a few of them with me, take them out to look at during class during the day or when I am self-studying at night, and draw very small petals like them in the diary, as if I really understand the secret of those petals withering . That day, I was drawing on the table by the window, and I was still reading in my place. It was not evening yet, and he usually left early.I still walked over to pick up the manuscript paper he dropped. Today, the petals he painted are very gentle, with a kind of beauty under forbearance.When I looked up, I suddenly saw the tree outside the window. . .Magnolia.The straight trunk and bare branches are covered with white flowers, like white clouds held up by thin arms.Most of those flowers are already in full bloom, each one blooming affectionately and melancholy, but the underside of the tree is already covered with withered petals.Looking from here, the flowering tree in the wind actually has a feeling of loneliness.At this moment, a voice behind asked, "Do you want these manuscript papers?" When I turned around and saw him, my face suddenly became hot and I was at a loss for a while. "I forgot my pencil here." He smiled, took the pencil from the drawer under the table, and turned to leave. "I always thought it was gardenia." I said softly. I always thought it was gardenia, the kind of flower that blooms in summer, sometimes the stamens are covered with flower insects, showing its sweetness all at once. "No, gardenias don't wither in spring." He turned his head and answered me seriously. "When you started painting, the magnolia flowers didn't wither." "Have you been watching me draw?" He smiled and put his face close to mine, looking into my eyes and asked, "What's your name?" I leaned back and answered him: "Qi Qingchen." "Qi Qingchen? Which three words?" I wrote it on the table for him to read, and he said "oh", he took a piece of manuscript paper with flower petals in his hand, quickly wrote two words, and said: "My name, I have to leave first, see you another day .” He quickly disappeared down the stairs. . . His name was written on the manuscript paper: Lian Shun. It turned out that his name was Lian Shun.It turns out that those petals are magnolia flowers - a flower that blooms in early spring and then withers in winter - each blooms affectionately and alone, and each piece will wither patiently and lonely.Such a flower has been doomed for a lifetime from the moment it buds—short, pale, elegant, and regretful. When it was dark, I walked out of the bookstore and stood in front of the magnolia tree.Under the street lamps, a halo of yellow light appeared around the flowers, and petals fell under the trees, all of which were dirty colors.I picked up a petal that had just fallen and tucked it into the page. After that, I didn't see Lian Shun for a long time.He is really like a picture in a hallucination, appearing in an instant, and then disappearing.That day I saw Miyun at the bookstore, greeted her, and ordered a cup of coffee. To be continued. . .