"Hello? Jiayang," Fei said on the other side of the phone.
"Oh, okay. Let's make another arrangement then."
I slowly put down the phone, my hand mechanically twirling the pen on the office desk. There's a faint bitterness in my heart for my unrequited affection and the unpredictable mood of women.
The colleague across the desk making an international long-distance call said, "Jiayang, Jiayang, quick, help me write down a phone number."
I uncapped the pen and jotted down the number he dictated. When I finished, I saw my hands were stained with ink—what international brand it was, a gift from a foreign friend. I tossed it aside and went to wash my hands.
As I rinsed my hands under the water, the pale blue stains wouldn't completely wash away. Staring at my expressionless face in the mirror, I said to myself: smile.
Smile.
Yet, I did smile, exhaling a light sigh. There's still work, still life to live.
