His physiological preference

"Mom," Yang Zhiyan said with a hint of sarcasm, "that's his mortgage. What does it have to do with me?"

There was a three-second silence on Yang's mother's end, as if she hadn't expected Yang Zhiyan to say that.

Then Yang's mother's voice rose again, carrying that confident, unquestionable tone that Yang Zhiyan had heard for twenty-five years: "We're all family, how can you be so heartless?"

Yang Zhiyan closed her eyes.

What an irony that this family is.

"Who's truly heartless?" Yang Zhiyan opened her eyes, looking at the half-finished moon-white cheongsam on the worktable. "Don't you know?"

Yang's mother opened her mouth on the other end, probably wanting to say something, but Yang Zhiyan didn't give her the chance.

"I'm busy with work, I'll hang up now."

Then Yang Zhiyan hung up the phone abruptly.

The phone screen went dark. She looked at her blurry reflection on the screen, then turned the phone upside down on the table and picked up the scissors.

The studio was quiet. The only sound was the hissing of the fabric being cut. She moved the scissors along the lines drawn on the fabric, the blade moving smoothly and steadily. Her hands didn't tremble, and her heart remained calm.

After cutting a piece of cloth, she put down the scissors and picked up a needle.

Thread the needle, tie a knot, and insert the needle.

Teacher Mu came out from the inner room, holding a cup of tea. She glanced at her but didn't say anything. The old man stood at the door for a while, watching her insert a dozen or so needles, before slowly speaking.

"Did you get a call from home?"

"Mm." Yang Zhiyan didn't look up.

"You want money?"

"Um."

"What did you say?"

"They said your salary was deducted, so they won't have any money this month or next."

Teacher Mu smiled, walked over, stood behind her, and looked at the work in her hands.

"The stitches are too tight," Teacher Mu pointed to the side seam of the cheongsam. "Loosen two stitches here, otherwise it will be too tight when you wear it."

Yang Zhiyan looked down and saw that the stitches were indeed too dense. She removed the two stitches and started again. The needle tip pierced the fabric, pulling out a small thread, which she twisted with her fingertips until it was smooth.

"Zhiyan," Teacher Mu said, leaning against the shelf next to her with a teacup in hand, looking at her, "how long can you keep this up? Next month? The month after that?"

Yang Zhiyan paused for a moment, then continued with the needlework.

"We'll keep it a secret for as long as we can," she said. "Once they get used to not having my money, that'll be fine."

Teacher Mu looked at her profile for several seconds, then put the teacup on the table and patted her shoulder.

Li Fengxia sat on the sofa, her hand resting on her stomach. The expression on her face changed from "expectation" to "disappointment," and then from "disappointment" to "scheming."

"What did she say?" She watched as Yang's mother walked in from the balcony, still holding the phone in her hand.

Yang's mother put her phone on the coffee table and sighed.

"She said her boss withheld her salary, and she won't have any money this month or next."

"Deducted it?" Li Fengxia's voice rose. "What right does her boss have to deduct her wages?"

"She said she borrowed money from her landlord to rent the apartment."

Li Fengxia leaned back on the sofa cushions, remained silent for a few seconds, her eyes darted around, then she sat up straight and patted Yang's mother's hand.

"Mom, I have something to tell you," she said in a low voice, with a serious, calculating tone.

"I always said Zhiyan should get married. Look, if she gets married, she'll receive a dowry and won't have to pay for rent. It's such a good deal."

Yang's mother looked at her without saying a word.

"Mom," Li Fengxia patted her hand again, "think about it, if Zhiyan marries into a good family, the bride price should be at least this much, right?" She held up two fingers and waved them in front of Yang's mother.

When Yang's mother looked at the two fingers, the light in her eyes changed.

"You've met my cousin before, haven't you?" Li Fengxia continued.

"The conditions are indeed average, but this time is different. I asked my mother to inquire around back in our hometown and find someone from a good family, with a good job, and whose parents have pensions. It doesn't matter if he's a bit older, as long as he's good to Zhiyan."

Yang's mother tapped her knees twice with her fingers.

"But Zhiyan has such a temper," she hesitated for a moment, "she wasn't satisfied with the last one."

"The last one was bald, and his conditions weren't great, so it's normal that she wasn't satisfied," Li Fengxia said dismissively, waving her hand.

"This time, find someone with good conditions. What else can she choose? Women, it doesn't matter who they marry. Marrying a rich man means she can avoid twenty years of hard work."

The living room was quiet for a while. The bed sheets drying on the balcony were blown by the wind, making a rustling sound.

"Okay," Yang's mother finally nodded. "Have your mother inquire about it. The conditions must be good; Zhiyan is beautiful, we can't let her suffer."

Li Fengxia smiled, her lips curving into a smile, her eyes shining brightly.

"Mom, don't worry, I'll make sure to find her a good one."

When I came out of the subway station, it was already completely dark.

In Haicheng in June, it gets dark late; the sun doesn't set until after 7 p.m. But today it's cloudy, with thick clouds like an old quilt, completely blocking out the last ray of light.

The streetlights were on early in the morning, their orange glow spilling onto the asphalt road, blurred by the evening dampness, like a watercolor painting that hadn't quite dried.

Yang Zhiyan took the phone away from her ear; the screen was still lit.

Yang Zhiyan was still upset by her mother's phone call. Although she kept telling herself not to mind it, she was still unhappy.

She stood at the subway entrance, surrounded by a constant flow of people coming and going, each heading in their own direction and walking quickly, unnoticed by anyone.

She walked in the direction of Shengshi Tianxi.

She has been walking this road for almost a month. It's a 15-minute walk from the subway station to the entrance of her residential area, passing a commercial street, a bus stop, a row of plane trees, and a 24-hour convenience store.

Before, when she walked this road, she would think about what dishes to cook tomorrow, what seasonings she was missing at home, and whether the succulents on the windowsill needed watering. Today, she had no thoughts on her mind, was in a bad mood, and didn't want to do anything.

When she reached the entrance of the residential area, she stopped but did not go in.

The fountain at the entrance was still spraying water, the water jets sparkling under the lights, making a splashing sound as they fell back onto the surface.

She stood by the fountain, staring at the water jets for a few seconds before looking down and opening the food delivery app on her phone.

Braised chicken. Spicy hot pot. Fried chicken. Pizza. Congee. Rice noodles. Noodles.

She circled it once, and then circled it again.

I don't want to eat.

It's not that I'm not hungry, it's that I don't want to eat alone.

She remembered what Qin Yuzheng had said that night: "Eating alone isn't quite right."

She had only listened politely at the time and hadn't taken it to heart. Now she suddenly understood.

That "almost there" wasn't about the taste of the food, but about having someone sitting across from you. It was about having someone to share a delicious meal with.

She had never felt this way before.

In the past, when eating at home, the whole family would sit together, but she never felt "accompanied" at that table.

She was simply completing a task: cooking, serving, eating, and washing dishes. People came and went around her, but she was lonely.

That kind of loneliness isn't the loneliness of eating alone; it's the loneliness of sitting among a group of people, yet no one really cares what you've eaten.

Yang Zhiyan sighed and continued browsing the food delivery app.

When I swiped for the third time, a WeChat message popped up at the top of the screen.

Qin Yuzheng: Zhiyan, shall we cook tonight?

She stared at the message, her finger pausing for a moment. These past few days, he'd been calling her "Zhiyan" more and more naturally, from the first time he'd done so with a hint of hesitation, to now it came out perfectly naturally.

She typed: No, I don't want to cook today. She's looking at takeout options.

After sending it, she added: I haven't decided what to eat yet.

The message showed "read," and almost simultaneously, the "typing" notification popped up.

Qin Yuzheng: The takeout food is not good.