Lola was ambitious; she planned to finish reading all those books within a week.
After work, she lugged the books home with great effort, then dashed off to the department store, where she bought two bottles of lemon soda, a set of cotton pajamas, and a pair of glasses with an extremely low prescription—almost negligible—to prepare for her reading night.
Back home, she first took a hot bath with a sense of reverence. Then, she put on her newly prescribed glasses, slipped into her freshly bought pajamas, popped open the soda bottle, poured it into a glass, and carefully placed a slice of yellow-green lemon on the rim of the glass.
After completing all these preparations, she laid the hardcover book open on her lap and focused intently on the first page, only to find that after just two minutes, she couldn't keep reading.
Lola began to suspect that she might have bought a fake book; otherwise, why would the content seem so absurd?
For example, it mentioned that when a lady drinks tea, she must keep her arms tightly pressed against her sides, leaving not even the slightest gap. When picking up the teacup, both hands must be used: one hand to grasp the handle, while the other supports the base of the cup, with the middle finger of the hand holding the handle precisely touching the bottom of the cup wall. Moreover, if wearing lipstick, she must always drink from the exact same spot on the cup each time when drinking tea or wine. Even stirring coffee couldn't be done freely—it had to be stirred up and down, without making the metal spoon clink against the cup's walls...①
What baffled Lola the most was that every time the teacup was set down, the handle had to be pointing in the same direction... What was the point of that? Isn't a cup just a vessel for drinking? Why treat it with such solemnity, almost reverence?
She scratched the back of her head, set the book aside, and stood up to take a quick survey of the cups around her home. She wasn't much for tidiness; the cups were all shoved together in the cupboard, some leaning precariously against others, creating a chaotic sight. She pulled out an enamel mug and, tilting her head, carefully examined it under the lamp for a few moments before coming to a conclusion: the book was full of nonsense.
With this thought, Lola, feeling justified, closed the book, bit down on her soda straw, and lay back on the sofa.
Ten seconds later, she suddenly sat up again, picked up the book, and carefully examined its cover. The cover was made of twill fabric and hard cardboard, and the title shimmered with a special gold embossing. This could never be a fake book, which left only one possibility…
She wasn't suited for Mr. L's lifestyle.
In other words, she wasn't suited for Mr. L.
At the thought, her blood turned to ice, and she felt her heart sink like a heavy stone into her stomach. Lola gnawed on the straw, writhing in distress on the sofa. One moment, she thought about giving up on her feelings for Mr. L; the next, she was persuading herself to keep holding on. Eventually, she sat up, feeling defeated, and continued to read that ridiculous book on royal etiquette.
And so, the hands of the clock slowly crept toward eleven. Lola was about to freshen up before going to bed when suddenly, a knock on the door echoed through the room.
She lived on the roughest, most crime-ridden street, so a knock at midnight was nothing unusual. With practiced ease, Lola grabbed a baseball bat and walked over to the door, barking in a rough tone, "Who is it?"
From the other side came a woman's voice: "Open up. I'm from Mrs. Harris."
Peering through the peephole, she saw a woman standing outside, puffing on a cigarette. The woman had voluminous, permed curls, heavy eyeshadow, and nude pink lipstick. Lola didn't believe she was alone and cautiously asked, "What do you want? Tell me, and then I'll open the door."
The woman bit down on her cigarette and mumbled, "Young but clever. Fine, we can talk like this. Mrs. Harris wants to know when you plan to pay back the money."
Lola knew the IOU was with Mrs. Harris. Even if she hadn't managed to get close to that wealthy man, she still had to pay Mrs. Harris $150. She was shrewd and worldly but put on a little girl's naive innocence, trying to play dumb and muddle her way through: "I haven't even spoken to that man. Where would I get the money to pay her?"
The woman, still biting the cigarette, replied in a muffled voice, "What man? I don't understand what you're talking about. Sweetie, a week ago, you borrowed $1,800 from Mrs. Harris, to be repaid over 12 months at $150 per month. Tomorrow is this month's due date. Mrs. Harris sent me to remind you to pay up and not delay. Otherwise, we might have to resort to some extreme methods to collect the debt, like going to the restaurant where you work and telling the other customers you're just a debt-ridden little whore."
She slowly blew out a smoke ring and laughed hoarsely, "Oh right, you were born to a whore, so you're a little whore yourself."
Lola's mind buzzed; her blood surged hotly, rushing up to her cheeks. For a moment, she was almost unable to think. By the time she came to, her body had already rushed out the door, tackling the woman to the ground, one hand gripping her throat tightly while the other snatched away her cigarette and pressed the lit end into the woman's collarbone. The woman immediately let out a scream like a pig being slaughtered. In truth, it didn't hurt much, but Lola's fierce expression terrified her.
She was like an enraged little lion, panting heavily, her eyes red, her grip surprisingly strong. The woman had helped Mrs. Harris collect debts many times but had never encountered a girl like Lola—most girls, upon hearing they owed such a large sum, would cry or contemplate suicide. After all, the girls who fell into Mrs. Harris's trap were usually weak, gold-digging, and beautiful but without talent.
But Lola was different; she retaliated so decisively that she caught the woman off guard. The woman, strangled to the point where she could only make hissing sounds, was lucky she hadn't come alone; her boyfriend was standing in the yard. The woman struggled to grab Lola's wrist, kicking wildly to push Lola off her body, and screamed, "Tom, help! Help, help, help—!"
Tom heard the commotion and rushed over immediately. He was tall and broad, and he picked Lola up as if she were a small chick. He intended to give her a beating, but as he looked at her innocent and beautiful face, he hesitated, fearing she might be Mrs. Harris's cash cow. If he wasn't careful and ended up disfiguring her, Mrs. Harris would never forgive him.
This moment of hesitation gave Lola the opportunity she needed. She lashed out like a crazed cat, her claws raking down Tom's face, leaving a long, bloody scratch.
Tom, clutching the wound on his face, thought it over and decided he couldn't afford to mess with Lola. He quickly tossed her aside, scooped up his girlfriend, who was lying on the ground barely conscious, and prepared to flee.
——