I Woke Up And My Girlfriend Was Gone - Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Butterfly and the Trap

The woman’s silhouette partially blocked the sunlight, framing her body in a thin, golden rim that traced her soft curves.

“Quick sand is like that,” she continued. “The harder you force it, the faster it slips away. Try lightening your steps; it’ll be easier.”

Zuo Yin nodded and tried it. Sure enough, without the brute force, she stopped sliding back so much. She glanced at the woman who had reached out to help her and accepted the earlier invitation. “Then let’s go together.”

The woman smiled faintly, and together they began to forge a path across the untouched dunes.

She was a woman of few words. Aside from necessary communication, they climbed in silence, as if she had only sought Zuo Yin’s company to look a little less lonely. She carried a faint fragrance—like irises blooming in spring—clean and comforting. Zuo Yin liked the scent and quietly moved to the downwind side to catch more of it.

When Zuo Yin’s feet finally hit the fine sand at the summit, she let out a long, heavy breath of relief. She turned around, only to find the woman had already slipped away. The scent of iris lingered, but the woman was gone as abruptly as she had appeared.

Zuo Yin didn’t go looking for her. She knew that now they had reached the top, their brief alliance was over. It was a wordless understanding.

Ignoring her appearance, Zuo Yin pulled off her shoes. She held up the battered, yellowed sneakers and shook them; streams of sand poured out. She felt the shoes had given her a great deal of “face” by not falling apart or losing their soles on the way up.

She looked out at the boundless desert. The sinking sun draped the magnificent land in a layer of molten gold. The vast wilderness was a sea of undulating waves made of grit. This was exactly what Zuo Yin had come to see.

She pulled an old camera—bought years ago—from her backpack, ready to record every bit of this breathtaking moment. Through the lens, the Gobi was a masterpiece of gold and shadow. Where the light and darkness met, a woman stood.

The light and shadow traced her graceful figure. She held her head high, gazing into the distance at something unknown. The smooth line of her jaw and the slender curve of her neck spoke of a lofty, solitary pride.

It was breathtaking.

A rare ripple of emotion stirred in Zuo Yin’s eyes. Her finger moved to press the shutter.

“I don’t like being photographed, thank you.”

That soft, cool voice rang in her ear again. The wind tossed Zuo Yin’s short hair. She thought to herself that she had never been a “good” kid anyway, and she pressed the shutter—capturing the woman within her narrow rectangular screen.

…

Night fell as the city lights flickered to life. The Gobi, so magnificent by day, became a dark silhouette on the edge of the neon-lit city. Unless you stood in Dunhuang yourself, it was hard to imagine such a bustling metropolis hidden within the raw desert.

The scent of street food drifted from vintage stalls. The air was thick with the clamor of crowds—shouting vendors and laughing tourists. The “human fire” of the city, which Zuo Yin had avoided all day, came rushing back.

Zuo Yin walked aimlessly, a plain black choker around her neck, looking entirely out of place in the prosperity. She didn’t know where to go, but she didn’t want to stay in her hotel room.

Suddenly, an English song drifted through the noise. The voice was casual and lazy, paired with a standard, magnetic British accent that gave the song a unique charm. Captivated, Zuo Yin stopped and followed the sound into a side alley.

The alley wasn’t deep. After a few steps, she arrived at a folk bar glowing with purple light. The voice that had drawn her was coming from inside.

She stepped in, and the heavy glass door instantly shut out the noise of the street. Under dim lights, people drank quietly, their occasional conversations punctuated by the clinking of glasses. The song had ended. A young woman on stage was adjusting her microphone height, guitar in hand.

It wasn’t her singing. Zuo Yin felt a pang of disappointment.

“Excuse me, Miss, we’re full tonight. Are you meeting someone?” a waiter asked politely.

Zuo Yin was about to leave when a familiar figure caught her eye. The woman from the afternoon was sitting at a secluded small booth not far behind the waiter. A bottle of wine, three-quarters empty, sat on her high-top table.

The dim bar light fell across her face. Her thick lashes were lowered, and her dark eyes were filled with an unspeakable loneliness. It had been four or five hours since their encounter, and she had changed clothes. Her silky long hair melded into a black satin camisole dress, making her fair skin look even more porcelain—like a flower blooming alone in the dark.

Zuo Yin shoved her hands into her pockets and jerked her chin toward the woman. “I’m with someone. Give me a bottle of…” She glanced at the menu and pointed to a mid-priced bottle. If she was going to approach her, she needed “props.”

The shifting lights of the bar were momentarily blocked. The woman leaned her head on her hand and looked up listlessly, meeting Zuo Yin’s expressionless “poker face.”

She frowned slightly, as if trying to place her. “Have we met?” Still that cool voice, but perhaps warmed by the wine, it held a trace of tenderness.

“Crescent Lake,” Zuo Yin replied simply. She pulled out a stool and sat down beside the woman without an invitation. “Mind if I join you?”

The woman nodded, still acting indifferent. She narrowed her eyes, carefully studying this “rude” young girl. As her fan-like lashes fluttered under the light, Zuo Yin felt as if stardust were falling; the woman’s eyes were an endless galaxy.

Zuo Yin’s throat tightened. Feeling inexplicably dry, she poured herself a glass and downed it to hide her awkwardness. But the liquid didn’t soothe her thirst; instead, a sharp, spicy burn flooded her tongue. Her sensitive nerves were jolted, leaving her mind momentarily blank.

“Why drink hard liquor so fast?” The woman reached out, as if to take the glass away out of concern.

Zuo Yin refused, keeping the glass in front of her. “I like it,” she said, feigning composure.

The woman laughed, her voice raspy from the alcohol. “If you had been this stubborn and refused to listen while climbing Mingsha Mountain, you never would have made it to the top.”

Zuo Yin frowned. “And what about you? You left without a word.”

“No.” The woman shook her head. She looked a bit drunk, though her back remained perfectly straight. She toyed with the glass on the table, a thoughtful, mysterious smile playing on her lips.

The light swung around just then, illuminating her face. She looked like a goddess in a temple—holy, gentle, and tempting one to sin.

Just as Zuo Yin expected her to say something profound, the woman reached out and hooked her finger under Zuo Yin’s chin. Her serious demeanor vanished, replaced by pure flirtation.

The woman leaned in, her breath warm and smelling of wine. “I wouldn’t have left with such a sour face.”

In an instant, a fire was lit. The skin where the woman’s finger touched felt like it had been seared. Zuo Yin’s heart began to throb violently, like magma boiling in a volcano. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but she felt a heat rising that she couldn’t suppress.

She liked women. Especially women like the one before her—who looked gentle and dignified from a distance.

“Don’t touch me,” Zuo Yin snapped, turning her face away nervously, her voice a warning similar to the way her mother threatened her.

The woman looked almost regretful as she rubbed the fingers that had just touched Zuo Yin’s skin before drawing her hand back. Zuo Yin saw it clearly then: on the side of her slender, white ring finger, there was a tattoo of half a butterfly.

The woman let out a soft, gentle laugh. “What’s your name?”

“Zuo,” Zuo Yin replied with only her surname.

The woman nodded slightly. She picked up her own glass, poured a full measure, and pushed it across the small table toward Zuo Yin. “My treat.”

The dim lights shifted slowly. The butterfly on the woman’s finger seemed to flutter its wings, trapping Zuo Yin’s gaze. She looked at the glass the woman had pushed forward. A faint red lip print was perfectly aligned toward her—as if the woman had intentionally set a trap.

But Zuo Yin was a willing victim.

She picked up the glass, placed her lips exactly where the woman’s print was, and drank it down just as the woman intended.

The woman froze for a second, then a smile spread across her face—one so tender it felt like you could drown in it.

Zuo Yin asked why she was laughing.

The woman rested her chin on her hand and asked how it tasted. Beneath the gentle exterior was a world of hidden charms.

The empty glass reflected the shimmering light. In that reflection, Zuo Yin slowly stood up and, without a word, began to close the distance between them.

Her lips, moistened by the wine, parted ever so slightly.