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The Shy Sweet Wife of the Third Master
墨書 Inktalez
Do you know the meaning of the Iris flower? It symbolizes enduring friendship and long-lasting remembrance. But who can understand that a flower, which secretes poison to protect itself, also longs to be approached, to be warmed, to be loved, and to be cared for?
At over forty years old, I work a mediocre job, earning a salary that is neither high nor low, living a life that is bland and uneventful. My emotions are flat, lacking any upward motivation, as if I were a corpse repeating the same actions and facing the same crowd day after day. No one knows why I have become this way, as if suddenly there was an extra person in the world who recklessly rushed into a crowded place, blended in, and ultimately became just another face in the crowd.
One day after work, I walked along a bustling street. At the intersection, the red light was drowned in a sea of electric bikes. I stopped my bike amidst the crowd, lost in thought, while the sounds of children crying and adults cursing occasionally reached my ears. Just as my patience was wearing thin, the light turned green and the crowd began to move slowly. Suddenly, there was a loud "bang." Instinctively, I turned toward the sound and saw a gray-white Hyundai stopped on the crosswalk. The front of the car was slightly dented, with shattered glass from the left headlight scattered everywhere. In front of it lay an electric bike with broken parts strewn about and several red apples rolling away. Next to the bike lay a woman; her hair was spread out covering her face, and her white shirt was gradually stained red with blood. Her right calf hung at an unnatural angle on the bike. Beside her sat a little girl about two or three years old, wailing loudly as she tried to stand up but kept falling back down.
A man and woman emerged from the white Hyundai. The woman wore a light pink dress and leaned against the man, covering her face with her hands while her shoulders trembled slightly. The man in a black suit comforted her while pulling out his phone to make a call. At that moment, the green light turned red again, making the already congested traffic even worse. I decided to stay where I was and watch this scene unfold before me. It reminded me of my childhood; was I not like that little girl once—sitting helplessly on the ground crying uncontrollably as tears soaked my clothes and blurred my mother’s lifeless face? The people around me looked on coldly while I wanted to cry out for help but found my throat choked by tears.
Lost in thought, I was startled back to reality by honking from behind me. I turned around to see two police cars parked by the roadside; several traffic officers were getting out to disperse the crowd. The flow of people on the crosswalk began moving slowly again. Under the strange gazes of those around me, I turned my handlebar and rode my electric bike home.
When I got home, it was pitch dark; my father had already left for work at this hour. I turned on the lights and changed into slippers. As usual, I took off my down jacket and tossed it casually onto the sofa before heading to the kitchen. There were noodles boiling in a pot—made by my father before he left for work—each strand distinct along with some shrimp, lettuce leaves, and a handful of scallions. After finishing the light broth, warmth spread through me.
After eating the noodles, I habitually picked up my father's cigarette and lit one up while leaning against the balcony door, gazing at the distant lights. I recalled that scene from earlier on the road; yes, it was not just an interlude in that little girl's story but also a significant episode that impacted my life—my weakness and incompetence, my insecurities and suspicions—all began with that car accident.
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