He stood before the stove, a plate of simply stir-fried cabbage already dished out.
When Baobao was at home before, she had cooked this dish. He picked up some chopsticks, pinched a piece of cabbage, and put it into his mouth. He savored it, then lackadaisically set down the chopsticks.
It wasn't right, still not right.
He couldn't replicate Baobao's flavor.
"Heh..." He covered his face, letting out a low chuckle, then picked up a bottle of wine, his mind lost in it.
He had been clean-living, abstaining from alcohol, but after Baobao left, more than five months had passed, almost half a year, and he found himself growing fond of the liquid in his cup. His tolerance shifted from getting drunk after just one drink, to being more lucid the more he drank.
Now, even his desire to get thoroughly drunk, to drown his sorrows in stupor, had become an unrealistic luxury.
In the afternoon, a horse-drawn carriage approached from the mountain road.
