I Woke Up And My Girlfriend Was Gone - Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The Mint-Colored Cigarettes

The woman was gone.

Or rather, she had simply left.

Brilliant sunlight filled the room, yet Zuo Yin felt no warmth on her hand as it hung off the side of the bed. If it weren’t for the undeniable ache in her body, she might have believed last night was nothing more than a dream. She looked at the lingering mess of the room—her clothes scattered across the floor—while the woman had left not a single trace of herself behind.

Ah, a one-night stand.

Zuo Yin accepted the reality calmly. She kicked off the covers to find her clothes. It was quite out of character for her, she realized, to have given herself so recklessly to a woman she had only met once. She didn’t know her name, her age, or even which hotel she was actually staying in. She had thought this might be the start of a romantic adventure, but it turned out the other party was just hungry for her body.

Wiped the plate clean and left without even saying “thanks for the meal.”

Zuo Yin had never felt so full of internal snark. It was as if she were using this forced humor to mask the hollowness in her chest. The midsummer sun was too bright, making her feel even more isolated in this strange environment. She gathered her undergarments and headed for the bathroom; she would wash up and leave this absurd place behind.

As she walked, she spotted something flat and rectangular on the carpet. The sunlight caught it, reflecting a pale mint-green. She picked it up: a box of ladies’ cigarettes.

She studied the box, her fingers tracing the gold trim just as her palms had traced the woman’s snowy skin the night before. Zuo Yin didn’t smoke, but her mother, Zuo Lan, did. If Zuo Lan sold a painting for a good price, she’d buy high-end cigarettes to play the part of a sophisticated lady; if money was tight, she’d settle for cheap brands.

Just by the feel of the packaging, Zuo Yin knew these were expensive. They likely cost three digits—the kind of cigarettes Zuo Lan said she could only afford if some “sucker” bought the most expensive piece in her shop.

Ten slim cigarettes lay loosely inside the opened box. The scent that belonged exclusively to “Miss Shen”—the one Zuo Yin had tasted last night—drifted out.

Not a very professional one-night stand partner, leaving things behind like that, Zuo Yin thought expressionlessly, slipping the box into her pocket.

After a shower, she felt refreshed. She checked her reflection in her camera several times to ensure a Band-Aid perfectly hid the red mark on her collarbone. Only then did she walk out of the hotel with an air of indifference and hail a taxi.

The meter clicked heartlessly. Zuo Yin unwrapped a lollipop and stared out at the city—a place she was now destined to remember for the rest of her life. As the car left the busy district and the buildings grew shorter, the yellow sands of the Gobi reclaimed the horizon. In that vast desolation, she saw two phantom red flowers blooming in her mind.

She had left her heart and her “cinnabar mole” behind in Dunhuang.

…

The “Warmth” of Home

The city’s greenery eventually replaced the desert. High-rises pierced the sky. Zuo Yin lived in a bustling central district. She took a single bus from the station to her neighborhood.

Past the modern buildings, the old roads were crowded with aging plane trees. It was the afternoon rush; the air was thick with the sounds of mothers scolding children, the beeping of reverse-gear trikes, and the sizzle of frying pans.

Behind a massive plane tree, Zuo Yin used a rusted key to open an old security door. To her surprise, the dim, narrow house was brightly lit. She saw a pair of brand-new grey slippers waiting at the entrance and smelled the fragrance of home-cooked food.

Zuo Yin’s nerves instantly tightened. She dropped her suitcase and gripped the collapsible baton in her bag, creeping toward the kitchen. She couldn’t rule out the possibility of a squatter.

As she approached, she saw a busy figure. An oily, worn-out apron was tied tightly around the woman’s waist, looking loose even on her thin frame. It was Zuo Lan, her mother—yet it didn’t feel like her.

Zuo Yin stood at the doorway, staring intensely, as if trying to prove this woman was an impostor. But it was indeed Zuo Lan. When she turned to plate a dish, she met her daughter’s gaze. Startled, the porcelain plate slipped from her hand and shattered, taking a pile of greasy greens with it.

“Holy crap! Are you sick?! Coming home without making a sound? You trying to be a thief?” Zuo Lan shrieked, hollowing a cooking ladle at Zuo Yin’s head.

Zuo Yin tilted her head, letting the ladle whistle past her hair and clatter onto the floor. She looked at the roasted chicken and duck on the counter. “Where did you get the money for this?”

“You’re back, aren’t you? I’m giving you some ‘maternal warmth,'” Zuo Lan said with a smirk, tearing off a chicken leg and stuffing it into her mouth.

“I asked where you got the money.” Zuo Yin’s voice was cold. She knew Zuo Lan too well; a thousand yuan wouldn’t last her a week.

Zuo Lan laughed triumphantly. “Ever since you left, my luck changed! Two suckers came by and bought two paintings. Your mother is loaded!”

“Which two?” Zuo Yin’s gut twisted.

Zuo Lan’s smile stiffened. “Well… my most expensive one… and…”

“And which other one?” Zuo Yin stared her down.

“That… dark, messy one of yours…”

Zuo Yin exploded. The reality hit her like a sledgehammer. “Zuo Lan! You sold my painting?! You let someone into my studio!”

Zuo Lan winced. No matter how poorly she treated Zuo Yin, she had never seen her daughter this angry. She tried to approach her like one would a wild animal. “I just… I wanted to copy it, so I brought it out. I swear I didn’t let them in your room! But it was fate! The buyer saw it and offered a huge price—enough for your tuition! Paintings are meant to be sold!”

“No! I didn’t paint that for money!” Zuo Yin shouted. That painting was her sanctuary during the dark days of her senior year, her tribute to the artist she admired most. “I’m not like you! I have ideals!”

Zuo Lan’s eyes bulged. She jabbed a finger at Zuo Yin. “Oh, so you look down on your mother now? Every cent you’ve spent came from me selling paintings! Without my ‘degradation,’ you wouldn’t even have food to eat, let alone ‘ideals’! You owe me! I sold it, and that’s that!”

The words choked Zuo Yin. Zuo Lan was right. Without money, there is no life, let alone ideals. She had watched Zuo Lan sell her own soul piece by piece to raise her. Zuo Yin could question her mother on many things, but not this.

Biting her lip until it turned white, Zuo Yin turned and stomped up the creaky wooden stairs, slamming her door so hard the frame rattled.

…

The Painting

A few miles away, in a luxury villa district, the atmosphere was entirely different.

Huge glass walls framed the sunset. Shen Lai, dressed in a loose traditional shirt, stood with his hands behind his back, admiring a new acquisition.

“Dad, you said you had something special to show me?”

Shen Qingzi had just returned from an art gala. She was still wearing her lotus-pink satin gown, her slender figure looking elegant and sexy in the draped fabric.

“Qingzi, come look at this painting. Doesn’t it look like your style?”

Shen Lai stepped aside. An oil painting in shifting, magnificent cool tones—dark, eerie, and reminiscent of Western dark fantasy—appeared before her.

Looking at the strokes, Shen Qingzi’s mind instantly flashed back to that night—and the girl who had pinned her down and kissed her without a shred of hesitation.