Wuhan had already entered its plum rain season. Even deep into the night, there was no relief from the heat; everything felt damp to the touch. Tossing and turning in bed, Liu Jie would shift his position about every class period’s length, a sheen of sweat on his forehead that the constantly blowing fan couldn’t disperse.
He regretted not turning on the air conditioner before bed. For a fleeting moment when he was about to sleep, the thought of flipping the AC switch had crossed his mind. But coming out of the bathroom, the electric fan in the living room was working hard, and Liu Jie, bare-chested, felt quite cool. Since it wasn’t that hot, he had simply collapsed onto the bed.
By now, the air was saturated with moisture brought by the monsoon. Even his EVA slippers felt coarse as they scraped against the smooth floor. Liu Jie scratched his neck, pondering. It was the middle of the night; turning on the AC now seemed a bit wasteful. Yet, toughing it out like this was truly uncomfortable. He fumbled for the fan’s remote control and cranked the setting up from a gentle “1” by three notches, letting the powerful “4” blast against his back.
The Blood-Red Candlestick
As the sun pierced through the gaps in the curtains, Liu Jie’s drowsiness completely vanished. He cherished this half-hour, perhaps the coolest part of the day, forcing himself to linger in a state between dreaming and waking. When his watch began to vibrate, he knew it was time to get up. He no longer felt any attachment to the stuffy, humid bed.
Fridays were often colored black; the morning market was always exceptionally treacherous. Liu Jie was always conservative with his stop-loss points, constantly reminding himself not to lose his eligibility to trade in some inexplicable fluctuation.
Following his set routine, Liu Jie brushed his teeth, washed his face, picked up his phone, and sat down on the toilet. He swiped open the screen. A blood-red K-line chart made his scalp tingle: crude oil prices were up 8%. Liu Jie rubbed his eyes. Yes, 8%. For a moment, he couldn’t recall what position he was holding when the market closed last night. His mind quickly rebooted, and in an instant, he understood that everything displayed on his phone would have nothing to do with him.
Less than an hour before the market opened, Israel had bombed Iran.
Liu Jie hastily skimmed the live news and gently placed his phone on the bathroom counter. Today would be a day to completely relax. As he pulled up his pants, he had already decided: he would definitely turn on the air conditioner tonight.
From 92 to 95
Liu Jie had to visit the gas station once every half-month. He always chose a Tuesday or Friday, as the station would issue discount coupons to members on these days, saving twenty or thirty yuan on a full tank.
Half a month ago, the gas station on the corner had put up a “Big Price Drop” banner. It was a new style of flag that could flutter even without wind. However, this propped-up advertisement didn’t seem to attract any more customers than before.
For nearly a year, gas prices had been steadily falling. Today, they hadn’t even had time to take down the sign. Perhaps in a few days, their fuel discount coupons would be canceled.
Two years ago, when Liu Jie drove his Citroën to the gas station, he would fill it with 92-octane gasoline, always getting 200 yuan worth, just enough to meet the threshold for a discount coupon. Later, the station adjusted its policy, requiring a 220 yuan fill-up to get the discount. So, he stopped bothering to calculate how many kilometers he could drive on a certain amount of gas. He would just say two words to the attendant: “Fill it up.” The attendant never asked which type of gas he wanted, always reaching for the 92-octane nozzle.
Last year, the transmission warning light on his Citroën kept coming on. A diagnostic check at the 4S dealership couldn’t pinpoint the problem. The mechanic said that dismantling the transmission for inspection would cost more than the car was worth.
During that time, Liu Jie visited several 4S dealerships. All the new energy vehicle sellers were using every ounce of their strength to court every customer who walked in. Liu Jie was genuinely shocked after a test drive. On the expressway, with one press of the accelerator, his brain hadn’t even processed it before the speedometer had already shot up to 170 km/h.
Despite the mind-bending performance, Liu Jie still didn’t like new energy vehicles. He found them heavy and lacking agility. So, he gritted his teeth, sold the Citroën, and took out a loan for a new Peugeot. He loved listening to the low rumble of the engine; it felt like a conversation with the machine.
Initially, Liu Jie had asked the car salesman, “Can the Peugeot take 92-octane gas?” The salesman told him that 92-octane was perfectly fine for the car. However, when Liu Jie carefully read the owner’s manual, he saw it stated that while the Peugeot could use 92-octane, its engine performance would be better with 95-octane gasoline. Liu Jie was someone who liked to pursue the ultimate performance. He followed the manual’s advice and started filling his Peugeot with 95-octane. He never bothered to compare how much more he spent on gas each year after the switch; he felt that spending money to improve performance was worth it.
Now, when Liu Jie drives to the gas station, he rolls down his window and tells the attendant, “Fill it up with 95.”
The Leisure of a Bowl of Noodles
He hadn’t been to the neighborhood noodle shop for breakfast in a long time. Now, on a Friday morning, since he was idle anyway, he suddenly had a craving for a bowl of spicy xiao mian noodles.
The last time they chatted, the owner told Liu Jie that he and his wife were from Chongqing. Liu Jie couldn’t remember the name of the obscure town the owner mentioned; in his mind, Chongqing was probably not a very large place.
“There are too many people selling xiao mian in Chongqing,” the owner had said, “It’s like how everyone in Wuhan makes hot dry noodles. It’s only natural that you have to make it delicious.”
“What if it’s not delicious?” Liu Jie asked.
“That’s impossible,” the owner replied firmly.
The owner came to Wuhan to sell xiao mian because of the lack of competition, making it easier to earn a living. The couple went back home once a year for the Spring Festival; the rest of the time, they were in this little noodle shop on this street. For seven or eight years, they had never closed for a break. Unlike other family-run shops with children running in and out, this one always had just the two of them.
As usual, Liu Jie ordered the fatty-intestine xiao mian with a fried egg. He had always believed that eggs were best when fried, with a couple of drops of light soy sauce. There was one bowl of the shop’s complimentary soy milk left. Liu Jie didn’t like the instant-mix taste; he planned to save his appetite and brew himself a cup of Costa Rican coffee with his AeroPress when he got back home.
Liu Jie understood that for a long time to come, he would not be trading anymore. He would just be idle, doing nothing.