Going out on vacation to find married women

The National Day holiday is seven days long, and this holiday has mixed feelings for me. I have to spend it with my wife and children; most male protagonists in stories like this fall into this cliché, and I'm no exception. I know the holiday will be painful for her—having a loved one but not being able to be together, spending her days alone in melancholy, suffering the pangs of longing. A holiday that could have been wonderful and unforgettable has instead become tasteless and unbearable. I think I'll find a chance to see her.

On the last day of the holiday, I took a thousand yuan to her place. She said she drank a lot of beer with her girlfriends the day before yesterday. I was a little puzzled by her behavior: "Why are you treating yourself like this? You just had a medical abortion, your body hasn't fully recovered yet."

"To be honest, I'm feeling really down, I'm always at a loss, and I can only rely on alcohol to relieve my worries." "What's bothering you? Tell me quickly." "A lot, a lot, you can't understand it right now." I gave her some money, she didn't say anything, just gestured for me to put it on the table. I hugged her, and she said, "Are you bored with me? I can't talk, I don't have a sense of humor, and we can't even have sex." "No, I'm very happy with you. Being together doesn't necessarily mean having sex." "Are you free this afternoon?" she asked. "Why?" "I'll cook for you this afternoon." Maybe she was sleepy, she fell asleep after a while. Feeling bored, I picked up a magazine and flipped through it randomly.

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. She got up, picked up the intercom by the door, and asked who it was. Of course, I couldn't hear what the other person was saying, only that she said, "You've got the wrong place." She put the receiver down and went back to bed, but the doorbell kept ringing. I thought someone was playing a prank, so I said, "Let me go down and see." She quickly stopped me, saying, "Never mind him, he'll stop ringing when he's had enough." I was a little puzzled. After a while, someone started knocking on the door, repeatedly calling out "Wang Ling, Wang Ling." It was a typical Cantonese man's voice. It seemed this person really had the wrong address. I knew her name wasn't Wang Ling. I wanted to open the door and explain, but she gestured for me to be quiet. In that instant, I felt she knew the man knocking.

Throughout our relationship, we adhered to the rules. I never told her my name, and she never asked. Although I knew her name from the business card she gave me, I never called her that. We always addressed each other as "darling" or "baby," and in public, we'd at most say "hello." Wasn't her name the one printed on the business card? The man outside probably got tired of knocking and stopped, but a few minutes later, the doorbell started ringing again. He ran upstairs, knocked, and then ran back down to ring the doorbell, repeating this three times. He must have been sweating profusely, and it took half an hour before it finally became quiet outside. During this time, she dared not make a sound, even tiptoeing to the bathroom, afraid that someone outside would hear anything. Actually, the person outside already knew someone was inside when they rang the intercom, which is why they were able to persist. About ten more minutes passed, and there was no more knocking. The man probably gave up, realizing there was no hope of getting the door open.

I felt like her affair had driven her into a dead end, and I also sensed that her relationship with that man was more than just casual; it was just that he hadn't followed the rules and had become an unwelcome guest. Even she complained that he hadn't called first, which made me feel terrible and embarrassed for her.

"Do you know him?" I asked, a pang of sadness in my heart. Perhaps feeling that this reality was unavoidable, she thought for a moment and carefully chose her words before answering, "He's a man who likes me." Just as I expected, I continued, "How long have you been seeing each other?" "Before you, he only treated me to two meals, nothing else." This was clearly an attempt to cover something up. How could someone who had only eaten two meals with me be so persistent, shameless, and knock on my door in the hallway for so long? Nobody believed her. After a two-minute silence, I said, "From now on—I'm not going to contact you anymore." I thought about these words carefully, afraid that they would upset her, but I still took a deep breath and said them. “We really have nothing going on, we just had two meals together. He’s the kind of guy who’s just playing around, I can’t be with him.” At this point, I felt she was being a bit promiscuous, but I forced myself to continue: “What I mean is, I’m a married man, I can’t get a divorce, and we won’t have any future. You’ll eventually have to find a boyfriend and get married, and continuing like this will only hinder your happiness.” “But you’re my only pillar of support,” she said, and I was actually a little moved by what she said. She continued, “He’s not really anyone to me, it’s like I’m really having an affair. Will you come again? I feel like you won’t.” “Not necessarily, I just don’t want to affect your life,” I said.

“You really won’t come again?” She looked up and asked as I was about to leave. “No, I’m just busy next week, I won’t have much free time.” I put on my shoes, and this time I didn’t turn around to kiss her as usual, I just said goodbye in a flat tone.

“Goodbye.” Her voice was so soft it was almost inaudible. Maybe she didn’t want to say it. A petite woman, facing two men she was about to meet, perhaps her heart was in turmoil, very turmoil.

I didn't see anyone waiting outside her door. Perhaps the man who had knocked had already lost patience and left; maybe he felt hurt; maybe he was still completely confused, thinking the woman was just unhappy and didn't want to see him; maybe he was relieved that he could now go find another woman without any burden. And I, perhaps, had become a complete third party, a shining third wheel, ruining what should have been their passionate and romantic afternoon. I climbed the stairs, one step at a time, but didn't see any man waiting downstairs. A chill suddenly ran through me, and I listlessly walked home.

Back in my apartment complex, I didn't go straight home. Instead, I found a wooden chair and sat down, my mind still racing. I wrote a text message to send her: "I made a serious mistake today. I shouldn't have gone to your place. Why did I go? I just couldn't resist seeing you. I never imagined it would lead to such a terrible mistake. In fact, I had already foreseen many things, but I just refused to believe it. I was burying my head in the sand, probably because I like you too much. Actually, I'm not really anyone to you. At most, I'm just a peripheral figure, someone who can understand you on a spiritual level, someone who likes you. Because I'm not anyone, anything I say would be superfluous." After writing it, I revised it, thinking for a moment, and added the salutation "Darling" to avoid making her feel too distant. This long message showed as three pages when I sent it. I figured she wouldn't reply quickly. Her phone was off because she was afraid to answer the call from that man earlier. I didn't receive her reply until around 10 p.m.: "I'm sorry, darling. Any explanation is empty, but my love for you is real."

If they weren't very close, that man wouldn't have acted that way. Only she knew how close they were. My personal views are quite open-minded. I don't object to having lovers, and I can have several, but it should be done one at a time, not all at once. Frequent emotional shifts are a very troublesome thing, especially for women. By nature, women don't switch emotions as easily as changing TV channels; there's a huge inertia involved.

I can't forget that night last month when I texted her all night, but she didn't reply. I called her at 3 a.m., but her phone was off. I was worried sick all night. On my way to work the next day, I called again, still no reply. An hour later, I called again, and finally, her phone was on, but she was on the phone. Where did she go all night? It's a very uncomfortable memory. I'm starting to see her in a new light, and I even dislike her a little. To hell with love, to hell with emotional support! This woman, though not talkative, is eloquent and knows what men want to hear.

She said her experiences had been very difficult, and I said, "Could you tell me about it?" She said, "No, that's my privacy." She said she had written about her experiences and found a magazine editor who was willing to pay her tens of thousands of yuan for her writing. But at the last minute, she refused, saying, "I can't sell my privacy to others." I thought that no matter how difficult a woman's experiences are, they can't escape the realm of emotions. Perhaps she's been hurt in a relationship, or even raped. It's best not to ask, but maybe these traumas have caused her psychological problems. I suddenly felt that she was a woman not to be trifled with, and that I was walking step by step into a well-designed trap, but I didn't know what that trap was.

This hot southern city only began to cool down at the end of October. Standing in the air felt very comfortable, a gentle breeze blowing, pleasant yet tinged with ambiguity. Passersby hurried by, all rushing to work. I drove to a hotel in the city center to pick up some American guests for a visit to my company. Outside the hotel, several pretty girls were haggling with a taxi driver, trying to share a taxi home. They had probably just finished a long night's work and wanted to save money on their earnings. In the hotel lobby, a sexy, slender blonde woman walked back and forth. Her light blue jeans accentuated her alluring figure, drawing the attention of both Chinese and foreign guests. She didn't look like a resident; she seemed more like she was looking for someone than seducing them. Nearby, a tall, foreign man in a yellow t-shirt was constantly texting. After some back and forth, the person he was waiting for finally arrived: a voluptuous Chinese woman, who appeared to be only two-thirds his height, walked in, spoke a few words to him in English, and then the two entered the elevator hand in hand.

Ten minutes later, I picked up my client and sped wildly down the highway towards the company. Sometimes the company didn't have enough drivers, so occasionally I would personally drive these "gods" of the company—provided they were my clients. My job is relatively flexible. When I'm not busy, I wander around, exploring the new things in the city. When she's not working, I go to her place, and we'll get together and have sex.

When I'm calm, I think, what right do I have to interfere in her private life? As long as I'm satisfied, what she does is none of my business. I've always reminded myself, like a philosopher or educator, that I can have fun, but not go too far, especially emotionally. Why does my damn brain not listen to me at crucial moments?

Occasionally, I hear her say she goes to a clinic near her place for IV drips, probably because her medical abortion hasn't completely healed and she needs to consolidate the results. I asked her what kind of IV she was getting, and she said it was amino acids. Sometimes I hear her say she's still bleeding down there, and she describes it quite interestingly: "Another bright red stain on my white underwear." It's like writing a hazy poem. I couldn't appear too heartless, so I offered words of comfort: "Take a good rest, honey. Your health is the most important thing; everything else is secondary. I really wish I could shed these precious drops of blood for you, but there's nowhere for them to go. It's my fault that you, a girl struggling to make a living away from home, have experienced such emotional turmoil and haven't been able to recover properly. I promise this will never happen again; I'll treat you better." After reading these touching words, she also reflected on herself: "Thank you, dear. You reap what you sow; I have to bear the consequences of my own mistakes." "

When the car arrived at the company, I ran into A-Yi before even going upstairs. He looked dejected and said, 'I'm out of work. The boss has given all my tasks to others.' I said, 'That's a good thing! Weren't you always thinking about just getting paid without doing anything? Look, your dream has come true without you even realizing it. Be happy about it!' 'Don't joke around, what's there to be happy about?' 'What? Are you getting fired?' 'Maybe, I know too much.' He really thinks he's something special, knowing too much. Does he think he's some kind of informant for the mafia, about to be silenced?" A-Yi asked, "Are you still seeing that girl?" "Rarely." "Brother, listen to me, stop now. You may not be young anymore, but you're still a novice when it comes to relationships. She's a seasoned player. A middle-aged man like you, with a wife, kids, and a relatively successful career, can't afford to play this game, and you can't afford to lose."

A-Yi, though rough, was right. I thought, there's no need to deliberately say goodbye. I have my own strategy: create a transition period, let things cool down slowly, and then I'll gracefully withdraw, rediscovering my lost self. For her, it won't be sudden, nor will it cause too much emotional turmoil—it's perfectly human, good for both of us.

That evening, I treated my guests to dinner at the city's most upscale restaurant. During the meal, several Americans kept praising the Chinese food. I said, "If it's good, eat more." That sounded like a food advertisement. Emerging from the restaurant, I found myself surrounded by brightly lit streets. I glanced at my watch; it was nearly nine o'clock. Suddenly, I felt a bit tired—it had been a busy day. Fortunately, the guests were very satisfied with the company, so we sat down for substantive negotiations. The boss concluded by saying that today had been very fruitful and that I should treat the guests well that evening.

After dropping them off at their hotel, I found a place to park and headed towards a newly opened leisure center.

I went in, took a shower, then a steam room, rinsed off the moisture, and changed clothes. The manager at the door warmly led me into the room. I lay on the bed and waited quietly. Then a tall, burly girl with dark skin walked in. I guessed she was the massage therapist the center had assigned to me. She bowed and said, "Sir, may I serve you today?" Although I wasn't satisfied, I was too lazy to change, so I nodded listlessly, "Okay." To be honest, I felt a bit cheated to have such an average-looking girl touching me like that. I wasn't interested in talking to her. While she was massaging me, I let her knead and rub me, but it didn't arouse any excitement in me. Eventually, she also became quite bored. I closed my eyes for a short nap when my phone beeped. It was a text from her: "Are you home?" Of course not, but I couldn't exactly say I was getting a massage. I had to come up with something else. The best thing about texting is that it gives you plenty of time to think. Many people who are clumsy with words write exceptionally well-crafted texts thanks to this time difference. "I'm having dinner with clients." She didn't reply as quickly as usual. Did she think my reply was too abrupt? I waited a while longer, but still no reply. I sensed that she didn't enjoy texting with me as much as before. Maybe she didn't know what to talk about anymore, or maybe we'd grown distant. Actually, I didn't know what to talk about either.

This relaxation center was nicely decorated; the massage therapists said it was the most luxurious and largest in the area, with over two hundred rooms. I noticed the technicians' uniforms were quite distinctive: short-skirted cheongsams that exposed a lot of their chests. When they massaged, a slight bend in their head or a lift of their leg inevitably revealed glimpses of their cleavage. Just now, when I came out of the shower room, I saw some technicians walking in the corridor; some looked very sexy, with deep cleavage that was quite eye-catching; the more conservative ones wore a tight-fitting bra under their cheongsams to avoid any exposure. The technicians said they were very reluctant to wear these uniforms, as massaging clients required a lot of vigorous movements, which was extremely inconvenient. The leisure center hadn't consulted them when making the uniforms, and they all seemed bewildered when they received them; many had never worn such revealing clothing before. I asked if these uniforms would attract customers, and she said that's what their manager thought too.

While paying the bill, I overheard two people commenting on their experience. One asked, "How was it?" The other replied, "Too average." I thought, well, let's just make do; most reputable leisure centers are inevitably just average.

Many men like to have massage therapists help them relieve their physical needs when they get massages at leisure centers. Men's physiology is strange; every few days they feel unbearably aroused and need to find a place to release their pent-up desires. Of course, they can do this openly and legitimately with their wives, but most men prefer to find a side door rather than the main entrance. The feeling of releasing their pent-up desires with other women is certainly newer and more exciting, so many men enjoy it. This is why leisure centers are opening more and more. Legitimate leisure centers are called "legitimate venues" in the industry. Venues where manual release is provided are called "small flying venues," and venues where sexual intercourse is conducted are called "large flying venues." The owners of large and small flying venues usually have powerful backers; at least the police are on their side.

The city's leisure industry is highly developed, with leisure centers springing up like mushrooms after rain. Due to fierce competition, saunas and massages, originally a luxury for the wealthy, have gradually become more accessible to the general public. Previously, masseuses could earn a lot of money, but now it's barely enough to make ends meet. A massage therapist's income is generally based on hourly commission plus tips from customers, with no base salary or job security. Sometimes, they are even subject to deductions by the boss. Everything depends on their strength and looks. If they become physically weak or old, they should leave as soon as possible. If they can't find a better job—the reason they chose this profession is precisely because they can't find a better one—then while working as a masseuse, they should find a man willing to provide long-term financial support, provided that they are attractive to him and willingly provide him with satisfying sexual services. Otherwise, they can only return to their hometown, which they no longer respect, with regret.

As more stingy commoners frequented the industry, the technicians' tip income naturally decreased. The meager hourly commission made them feel both love and hate, but it was still much better than working in the sweatshops scattered throughout the Pearl River Delta. The work was relatively easy, and the working conditions were better than most factories. Naturally, the income was higher than in the factory. If they were good-looking, they might even meet a devoted man who was infatuated with them. As long as he was willing to pay, they could choose whether to be a mistress, a concubine, or a wife. The only downside to this profession is the inherent prejudice and contempt the public has towards it. People always view it with prejudice. Although people are happy to go in groups to enjoy themselves, this profession, where men are constantly being touched, is still deeply despised. Even the women themselves are very secretive about their work. You can ask any of them; at least when they call home, they'll tell their families they work in a restaurant or a factory and are doing well, so don't worry. They won't say they're a massage therapist at a leisure center—the kind of woman often mentioned in negative news stories, the kind that sounds extremely offensive.

I occasionally go to a leisure center for a massage when I'm extremely tired. I like real massages. After a full session, my whole body feels relaxed and my mind is completely at ease. The massage therapist serving you should be sweating profusely and panting, not just trying to chat, slacking off, and then asking for a tip. I dislike it when massage therapists offer me so-called "sexual services," a situation extremely rare in reputable leisure centers, though some frivolous girls are willing to do so—of course, to earn more tips. In such cases, I usually ask for a different therapist. Sex, whether or not it's a service, should be based on a certain level of affection; only such sex can bring a truly fulfilling experience for both body and mind. You can call me old-fashioned, or even mentally ill, but I will always hold this view.

I find myself still unable to forget her, and the man she had an affair with—that's what I used to think. I never actually witnessed them having an affair; all my assumptions were baseless guesses. I need to correct my previous judgments about them. As the days go by, my longing for her deepens, and the negative impression I have of her fades. I still go to see her as before; she opens the door with a smile, we embrace, and then engage in sexual activity until the heart-pounding climax arrives. I've almost forgotten the man who cast a shadow over us. Being with her is so pleasant, so joyful—where else can I find that feeling? People always think infidelity is wrong, but who can endure a life without desire for long? Under the weight of morality, it's either you endure it, or you're wrong. I waver between enduring and wrong, but at any given moment, one side always has the upper hand. My relationship with my wife hasn't improved, but it hasn't worsened either. I don't know why she's like this. I don't even want to mention sex in front of her, lest she accuse me of being lustful. Is there really something wrong with her? Maybe she's already found a way to satisfy her sexual desires without my help. We just live our lives peacefully day after day. Isn't that good? There's a saying, "Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." Do we really have to be like those characters in TV dramas, constantly going through twists and turns, spending all our time dealing with relationship problems?

Eliminating all distractions, not thinking about unpleasant things, and living a peaceful life with one wife and one concubine—just an example—isn't that a perfectly enjoyable life? She was good to me, and I reciprocated. That day, I told her, "I want you to feel secure. I want to save some money for you as a retirement fund." I spoke very seriously, my expression and tone formal. She smiled and nodded. I continued, "I plan to open an account and deposit a certain amount of money into it every month. In ten or twenty years, the amount will be quite substantial. When you need it, I'll give it to you for your retirement." She seemed touched, but also worried: "When I'm old and not pretty anymore, you'll hate me." I comforted her, saying, "No, I'll take care of you for the rest of my life, whether you're married or not. Of course, you'll have to support yourself when you're young. If you find a husband and you're happy, you might not come looking for me." "Then when we're old, we can use that money for a round-the-world trip." Her suggestion was excellent, just too far-fetched.

I'd had this idea a few days ago, and I thought it was feasible. Today, I formally told her, as a promise to her. A man like me, having worked for over a decade, changed jobs several times, and now I have everything I need—my family's financial security is established. I feel hopeless about promotions at work; in short, I lack the motivation to move forward. But a person without motivation, once given new motivation, will still choose to strive. This promise, at least, adds a sense of responsibility and concern to my heart, keeping something constantly active in my mind, leaping out like a carp from time to time, spurring me forward, spurring me to shed my laziness, and work hard.

This month, I deposited two thousand yuan into that newly opened savings account; of course, the account is in my name.

Overall, it's a suitable and safe plan. It's apt because I was determined to make her my lover for life, and she wanted the same. What women ultimately seek is a man who loves them and the security that comes with it. "No one has ever been this good to me," she said with a touch of emotion. I replied, "Then let me be the first, so you can live a life without worries." It's rare to find such a relationship in one's lifetime; to give up easily would be like a great man dying before achieving his goal. It's safe because the money is in my hands. Even if something unexpected happens in the future, I won't lose everything; at most, I can use the money to start a small business. A man in his thirties isn't as impulsive as a young man. He cares for her while leaving a way out, he attacks while remaining defensive—it's a well-planned adventure, not just a gamble for the sake of adventure.

I don't know why I sometimes think about her so passionately, considering everything for her, and planning her future. I'm very concerned about whether she has other men. Although I've often said in bed with great composure that I hope she'll marry well, sometimes the thought of this soft, affectionate woman lying in my arms eventually leaving me fills me with sadness. The more we discuss this topic, the more unhappy she seems: "What do you mean? Do you hate me? Are you eager to sell me off?" It's strange; I don't particularly care whether my wife has affairs. I don't know if this is normal, and I don't know if she has similar thoughts. For most men, even after the seven-year itch and no longer loving their wives, they don't want their wives to cheat. What could be the reason? Perhaps living with my wife for so long has become too bland. How else can I explain it? We both now see each other as partners raising children together, rather than as loving partners. We once loved each other passionately, but now, that love has faded like time.

Making her this promise already broke the rules of the game, indicating that I was deeply involved and that it would become increasingly difficult to extricate myself. In affairs like this, the man involved usually thinks it's best to only enjoy the process without any consequences, everyone having their fun and then going their separate ways. While people like me do exist, they are rare. The most typical example is Prince Charles of the British royal family, who maintained a 30-year affair with Camilla and ultimately left his tens of millions of dollars to her. When his two sons questioned him about why he didn't leave it to them, who needed the money more, Prince Charles replied, "That's my own business." Women, however, are very different from men. From what I've heard and read, it seems that most women need consequences, which is probably closely related to women's personality and their relatively vulnerable position in society. I once read a woman's online complaint. Because of her divorce, she no longer believed in marriage and started a relationship with a university professor. He had a high income but was very stingy. He not only didn't support her financially, but she also mostly paid for their trysts. This made her hesitant about the relationship, yet she couldn't leave him, suspecting he was only interested in sex. Women are naturally inclined to seek security and stability, though sometimes they're embarrassed to say it. This desire is deeply ingrained in women, almost innate. In a relationship, a woman might not think much at first, but as time goes on, it's hard to guarantee she won't have second thoughts. "We've been together for so long, there has to be something in return, something tangible. You can't give me stability, but you should at least provide some financial support." Sex is temporary; love is finite; only material things are reliable and eternal—this seems to align with Marxist dialectical materialism's theory of matter and consciousness.

It's been almost a month since she took the medication. Seeing her wearing sanitary pads again, I thought she was bleeding again. "This time it's my period," she said confidently. I was curious; how do women tell the difference? To me, it's all just blood.

The timely arrival of her period meant the medical abortion was successful. We've been worried about this because medical abortions sometimes result in retained tissue or incomplete embryo removal. If that happens, a dilation and curettage (D&C) procedure is needed, which is essentially another surgical abortion. The failure rate of medical abortions is about 5%, so while this method is discreet, it also carries risks. Fortunately, it was successful again this time.

After this abortion, I'm hesitant to have sex with her again. The importance of condoms has returned to our minds. Although clinical practice has shown them to be uncomfortable, nobody wants to experience pregnancy again. Often, especially in these kinds of situations, we only realize what we should have done less of or avoided when we encounter trouble or suffer pain, and then we have to resort to some remedial measures. In fact, these are all common sense things, but doing so has its unpleasant drawbacks. However, the pleasure may lead to other troubles, so it depends on what you are willing to sacrifice.

The heavy responsibility of buying condoms naturally fell on my shoulders. I was very reluctant to buy such things, but fortunately, many supermarkets and pharmacies are now designed to be very user-friendly. They know what you want to do and what you are embarrassed to do. Condoms can be selected by yourself. You just need to pick a box from the dazzling array of shelves and then go to pay, avoiding the embarrassment of asking the salesperson. It was midday, and I went to a small 24-hour convenience store to buy something. I always feel like I can't be too straightforward when buying these kinds of things. I first wandered around the store absentmindedly, casually picking up a box of chocolates and a pack of chewing gum from the shelf. Just before paying, I casually grabbed a box of condoms. Condoms are usually placed next to the checkout counter. The cashier smiled and said, "Would you like a pack of cigarettes too?" I was puzzled as to why she would ask that. Do people who buy condoms like to buy a pack of cigarettes as well? I don't deny that smoking a cigarette after sex can relax the nerves and relieve fatigue, but it seemed a bit inappropriate for the cashier to say that. It was as if she had seen through my privacy. I felt extremely uncomfortable at that moment, my face was burning, and I wanted to pay and leave as soon as possible. “I know you,” she persisted, becoming even more aggressive. She then called me by name: “We were colleagues, actually. I used to work at the same company as you, but I quit and went back to my hometown. After I came back, I found a job here.” “Ah, ah, hello.” I didn’t know what to say to her, feeling incredibly awkward that an acquaintance had seen me buying condoms, even though I had absolutely no recollection of her. “You definitely don’t know me. You’re in a high position, while I’m just a lowly employee, but I know you.” I felt a strange mix of emotions, but still maintained a polite demeanor, asking, “Working here must be good, right?” “It’s alright, a little better than my old company.” She said, putting the items into a bag and giving me change. Just as I was about to leave, she added, “You can enter a prize draw when you buy something here.” “No thanks.” I wanted to leave quickly. "Give it a try, maybe you can even win some cosmetics to take home as a gift for your wife. I've seen your wife before, she's so beautiful! I was so envious when I saw you two walking together." What did she mean by that? It was really weird. She was probably thinking, why buy condoms at noon? Don't you work in the afternoon? Are you so desperate that you want them at noon? Does your wife happen to be off work in the afternoon? Or are you buying them to use on someone else? Seeing her enthusiastic manner, I felt embarrassed to leave immediately. "Okay, let's try it then." She took out the lottery box tool, which was a spinning wheel with a pointer in the middle. Around the pointer were listed the prizes, including drinks, food, cosmetics, and other inexpensive items. You spin the pointer, and whichever prize it lands on is yours. I spun the pointer; it spun wildly several times before finally stopping on a can of Coke. I took the Coke she handed me and said, "Thank you." She said, "Hope you come often and support our business. We're old friends."

I thought I'd never shop here again. The worst thing is being seen by an acquaintance buying something you don't want anyone to know, and that cashier actually shouted that she knew me like a megaphone. She's either an idiot or has ulterior motives. Could she be a gossip, spreading rumors about me buying condoms at her store, eventually reaching my wife's ears through various channels? I don't know how I'll explain it to her then. I can't exactly say I bought them for a colleague—doesn't my colleague have hands? Do you really need to buy condoms for her? Many things are like this: you think you've kept it a secret, but everyone finds out anyway, and you don't know why. It's not that other people know, the key is that my wife can't know.

When we arrived at her apartment, I told her about my experience buying condoms. She laughed for a while, then said, "You're a grown man, yet you're so suspicious. What are the chances that something like this would happen and reach your wife's ears? We were walking arm in arm on the street, and she didn't even notice." I said, "Are you hoping she finds out? We weren't arm in arm; we just held hands in private, and quickly let go when we got to a crowded place. The news is probably still on some gossip's lips; it hasn't reached her ears yet." She said, "Was that cashier who used to be your colleague secretly in love with you? Before, you weren't on equal footing at the company, and she never even had a chance to talk to you. Today, she finally got the chance and kept talking to you." I hadn't expected her to say that earlier... She was still laughing heartily, but now she's starting to get jealous of the cashier. I've never seen her jealous of my wife before. I said with a grin, "Maybe. I don't know what she thinks unless she says so. It's good that she has a crush on me; the more people who do, the better. I dream of having a harem, a different woman every day—that means I'm attractive." "A harem? Dream on! See how your little brother feeds them," she said, hitting the nail on the head, flicking her finger. She continued, "What does she look like? Pretty?" "So-so, looks a bit like Zhang Ziyi," I replied calmly. Honestly, that girl really did resemble Zhang Ziyi—a small, narrow face. Zhang Yimou would definitely be attracted to her. "So pretty! Did you fall for her on the spot?" she pressed. I said, "Do you think Zhang Ziyi is pretty? I've never seen anyone with such a flat chest." "I don't think she's pretty either, but she's a star. Having small breasts doesn't stop her from being a star, right? —Are you implying my chest is flat?" "No, your breasts are just the right size, not too big or too small. I mean, breasts aren't the most important factor. As long as you're willing to offer yourself, there's nothing you can't do." I put my hand inside her clothes and started rubbing her breasts as I spoke. She shook off my hand: "Stop changing the subject. Let's get back to that woman. I noticed her attitude towards you is very different. Is she trying to seduce you into having an affair with her?" I felt she was being a bit unreasonable today: "What do you mean, 'have an affair'? You're being so rude. Aren't you being too sensitive? If you keep this up, I won't talk to you anymore."

I sensed something was wrong with her, which explained her strange behavior today. I asked softly, "Honey, what's wrong today? Did someone bully you?" She didn't try to hide anything, saying, "He called again this morning, saying he'd treat me to dinner tonight." "He" referred to the man who knocked on her door last time; perhaps they were still seeing each other. "Great, someone's treating you to dinner and you're not going? I want to eat out but nobody's ever invited me." I felt a little jealous, but I didn't want to interfere in her private affairs. She said, "Why don't you come with me?" "No, you should go alone. I have to give you face. It's not like you're losing anything by having a meal. I've said it before, and I'll repeat it again today: if you meet someone good, don't miss the chance." She said, "Why do you always talk to me like that, as if I'm really going to never get married? Can't you change that habit?" "Change it? Forget about it. You're already so old. I'm doing this for your own good. You can't be with me forever. Go find someone who loves you and live a good life with him." She smiled, like a blooming chrysanthemum, and said, "No, I want you." These words excited me a little. I said, "Today I'm going to give you a good time." As I said this, I pushed her down. She groaned and reached for the ribbed condom I had bought today. She struggled to tear open the packaging, and like a blind man feeling an elephant, she put it on me. Then she pressed down hard with both hands, and I began my dreamlike journey into the abyss.

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