Chapter 57: Women with Cracks in Their Souls – The Refined Nostalgia of Urban Men (Part 2)

He absolutely could not like a middle-aged woman like her—superficial, arrogant, and clinging to young men as if they were her lifeline. Unfortunately, the most alluring women are often those who have been wounded and weathered countless storms. A touch of disarray draws people in. Girls as pure as blank sheets of paper lack that broken-and-patched-together texture, where moonlight spills through the cracks. It might sound cruel, but such women are the ones men wake up in the middle of the night longing for—a refined nostalgia.

Ou Jing He shuffled two kilometers in her furry slippers to buy books: Mishima Yukio, Tanizaki Junichiro, Dazai Osamu… Her favorite authors had finally made their way into commercial bookstores, though she could only purchase the hottest writers on the market. She’d forgotten much of what she’d read earlier in life, so this sudden greed felt shallow. Only after checking out and stepping out of the bookstore did she remember that Gao Yuan’s mother didn’t like books cluttering the house, especially literary works—they brought too much “yin energy” and disrupted feng shui. If she wanted to read anything, it had to be Buddhist scriptures or business guides. Carrying her books to the dessert shop, halfway there, the weight of the dozen books became too much. The bookstore bag gave out, spilling the books onto the ground. Under the gaze of passersby at the intersection, Ou Jing He, decked out in glittering jewels, scrambled to gather the scattered books. She stacked them clumsily into two piles, her nails digging into the dirt between the ground and the books as she struggled to pull them into her arms, only for them to scatter again. The plastic covers of some books had torn, making them dirty. Her makeup was smudged, and strands of her shoulder-length hair clung to her sweaty forehead. She looked utterly disheveled. The green light for pedestrians flashed during rush hour, and crowds hurried past, yet no one stopped to help.

Zheng Ze Yan stood across the street, watching. Whether the books were stacked in two piles or three, whether cradled in a torn bag or tucked under her dress, they couldn’t easily be carried away. That foolish woman seemed to still be debating which books to discard just to save face.

He took a couple of steps forward, then retreated, muttering a curse under his breath before crossing the street. Pretending to wander aimlessly, he dodged a few electric scooters and anxiously looked up, only to see that the dozen books were now divided among three people—Yu Zhi Mei and Jian Zhao Wen. Ou Jing He tucked her hair behind her ears, visibly relieved as she picked up the last few books. Her steps grew lighter.

He stood rooted in place, watching the three figures disappear around the corner of the next block. When he realized his gaze lingered on one person in particular, he scowled and walked forward, his movements resembling someone who had crossed the street only to wait for the next signal light.

Finally back at the dessert shop, Yu Zhi Mei and Jian Zhao Wen left the books on the first floor and departed, arms around each other, heading off to eat pork intestine noodles, their expressions bright. Ou Jing He dumped all the books onto the third-floor floor, carefully unwrapping the plastic covers and placing them on the bed. The dust made fingerprints stand out even more clearly, and she suddenly felt too dirty to touch them. But when she saw Mishima Yukio and Dazai Osamu, she smiled—their works had every right to look down on her, mired in the dust. Yet her dirty hands barely flipped through a few pages before she grew weary. She couldn’t absorb a single word of the dense text. It was strange—once you break the habit of reading, picking it up again feels like running a marathon with a frail body. Finally, she opened the original novel of a Japanese drama. The first word that caught her eye was—adultery .

How ambiguous the meaning conveyed by kanji in Japanese. Ou Jing He pulled out her phone and posted a status on DayNight: “In intimate relationships, which is more unforgivable—emotional infidelity or physical infidelity?”

The replies were mixed: “Which one is forgivable? Neither meets moral standards.” “Asking this probably means you’ve already cheated.” “Physical infidelity? Dude, do you have a whole prairie on your head? Posting statuses like this.” “Prostitution is fine, but emotional infidelity is worse—it’s a betrayal of trust.” “Do you dare stop being anonymous?”

She chuckled at the comments. Daytime users had IDs and basic profiles, so they maintained some semblance of decorum. Switching to the nighttime interface, the person she’d been chatting with appeared in the dialogue box: “Only those with overflowing desires and little satisfaction cheat.”

Ou Jing He was startled: “How did you know it was me?”

“It’s a trending status. I figured you’d see it, but I didn’t know you posted it.”

“You’re actually giving infidelity a noble-sounding excuse.”

“Who says marriage is always happy? If a marriage isn’t happy, there’s no need to put it on a pedestal.”

“Are you married? Or did you have an unhappy childhood?”

The other person avoided answering directly: “Not everyone has the qualifications to get married. People who know they’ll cheat become chameleons in marriage, sneaking out to feed elsewhere—it’s despicable.”

Ou Jing He refused to concede in the conversation: “No one starts out wanting to be a chameleon. Only those who once dreamed of love get married—how selfish and disrespectful of love must you be.”

At midnight, the dessert shop had no new customers. Ou Jing He bid farewell to the chef and waiter, closed the shop, and prepared to take a bath, read, and sleep. She couldn’t let herself grow old without reclaiming the habit of reading. Just as she was about to lock the door with the chain, a shadow appeared at the entrance, startling her. Zheng Ze Yan pushed through the iron gate and grabbed her hand: “It’s me.”

Ou Jing He turned pale: “Showing up like this in the middle of the night is terrifying.”

“I want to drink.”

“We’re closed.”

“Don’t be so hostile. I just came for a drink—and to see you.”

He knew that saying those words would make her open the door. He wouldn’t admit that he’d showered, dressed neatly, and gone to Yu Zhi Mei’s building, only to hear Jian Zhao Wen and Yu Zhi Mei laughing and drinking on the balcony from below. Jian Zhao Wen, drunk, was confessing endlessly. This romance seemed to have ended before he even entered the scene. Unable to process it, he wandered to the dessert shop instead, settling for second best—not out of shame, but perhaps to confirm something. His steps quickened, and when he heard the iron gate close, he practically sprinted to the door, grabbing her hand just as it was about to disappear into the night.

Ou Jing He locked the main door and handed Zheng Ze Yan a Long Island Iced Tea, telling him to finish it before calling her to unlock the door again. She went upstairs to the third floor. Zheng Ze Yan, holding the glass, followed her up. Ou Jing He was bent over, organizing the books on the floor. In the tall, old house with its small balcony, this elegant woman had a top-floor room filled with books—not ostentatious or flashy, but meticulously wiping the dirtied pages with tissues, her movements careful and gentle.

She wasn’t as superficial as she imagined herself to be. He embraced her from behind under the warm yellow light, this hug feeling different from before. Suddenly, he wanted to know about her past—her teenage years, the kind of people she’d loved. Ou Jing He laughed: “Chasing me here—who’s really more unsatisfied between us?”

She never categorized herself outside the realm of desire.

After a bout of passion, Ou Jing He and Zheng Ze Yan lay side by side on the sofa, crowded under a blanket. When she climbed onto the bed, he followed, naked under a shared quilt—he simply had to stay by her side. Ou Jing He, as if her soul had left her body, spoke: “I have a strange feeling.”

“What?”

“If you loved me, I’d feel like I had no regrets.” Ou Jing He smiled, brushing her fingers near her lips. She wanted a cigarette.

“That’s awfully unambitious.”

“Then suppose I love you now. Do you have any wishes? Something I can help fulfill?”

“You can’t fulfill it.” Naked, Ou Jing He crawled to retrieve a cigarette, lit it, and pulled the quilt to her chest: “I want my own child.”

“Ha.” Zheng Ze Yan laughed as expected: “You have good taste.”

“Who said I’d have a child with you?” Ou Jing He hid behind the swirling smoke and laughed. Zheng Ze Yan, slightly irritated, snatched the cigarette from her hand. Ou Jing He grabbed it back and playfully threatened to press it against him. As the flame hovered millimeters from his skin, she paused, seeing his solemn expression of martyrdom, yet sensing his fear. She returned to his embrace, finished one cigarette, and lit another, whispering: “Let me tell you a secret.”

“I grew up in a Shanghai alleyway. My parents never had proper jobs; they spent their lives waiting for the demolition of our storefront. When I was seven or eight, my mom opened a hair salon, and neighbors came to support the business. One day after school, I overheard my parents fighting. Our house was so small that I could hear them from three shops away. A man from Jiangsu had come to the salon, claiming he wanted to ‘see me,’ but really, he was searching for relatives. My dad assumed I wasn’t his daughter and started arguing with my mom, completely ignoring me standing outside. At that moment, I truly thought I wasn’t their biological child—I was terrified. Later, the truth came out: the girl I often walked to and from school with, who lived in the back alley, was the one adopted from Jiangsu. The man had simply gotten lost in the alleys while searching for his child. But my parents kept fighting, and I began to entertain a sinful thought—if I weren’t their biological child, maybe I wouldn’t have grown up in this dirty alleyway with parents who fought loudly for the whole street to hear. When I was in my twenties, my boyfriend proposed to me at someone else’s wedding. I rejected him on the spot—how could a Shanghai woman marry an outsider without a house?”

“You’re cruel.”

“He didn’t have a house or even a car. Even though he earned ten thousand yuan a month, after learning I was from an alleyway, he looked down on me. We argued repeatedly about buying a house—his proposal was just a way to pressure me. Then my current husband came along, offering a bit of help with the demolition—well, a lot of help. My mind was full of love, vanity, and shallowness. Go ahead and look down on me.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m telling you because we can’t be together. One day, you’ll get married and disappear from my social circle. No one will know about this.” Ou Jing He exhaled a cloud of smoke: “If you ever tell anyone, I’ll retaliate fiercely.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not afraid.” Zheng Ze Yan’s tight smile carried a unique coldness: “What can you possibly do to me?”

“I’ll drag you to hell with me.”

Zheng Ze Yan pretended to choke her, but Ou Jing He laughed, crawling out from under the quilt. Wrapping herself in the shawl she’d worn in the car, her body covered only by this thin layer, she danced to the music. Zheng Ze Yan wanted to keep talking, but Ou Jing He placed a finger between her lips, twirling contentedly in the small space, revealing half a shoulder as she lost herself in the melody. Zheng Ze Yan listened quietly. The lyrics sang of Faye Wong’s timeless lament: “In this lifetime, meeting on narrow paths, there’s no escape.”

He absolutely could not like a middle-aged woman like her—superficial, arrogant, and clinging to young men as if they were her lifeline. Unfortunately, the most alluring women are often those who have been wounded and weathered countless storms. A touch of disarray draws people in. Girls as pure as blank sheets of paper lack that broken-and-patched-together texture, where moonlight spills through the cracks. It might sound cruel, but such women are the ones men wake up in the middle of the night longing for—a refined nostalgia.

P.S.: Welcome to add this to your favorites and vote for recommendations. Today, I’m also waiting for everyone to chat in the comments section~