Zhou Ya woke up a little past eight.

Fang Long was still asleep. Ma Huimin wasn’t home — lately her health had improved a bit, and she’d taken to going downstairs for a walk every morning as exercise.

There was rice porridge Ma Huimin had made in the pressure cooker in the kitchen. Zhou Ya moved quietly, scooped himself a bowl, and finished it in a few bites along with the fermented black bean dace fish and mixed pickles on the table.

He went back to his room and changed clothes — jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

The moment he stepped out of his room, the door next to his opened too.

He froze. Fang Long paused as well.

Fang Long spoke first, her voice lazy: “You’re still home? I thought you’d left already.”

“About to head out. Why are you up so early?”

“Gotta pee, gotta pee.”

The girl really had no shame — after saying that, she just left Zhou Ya standing there and jogged into the bathroom.

Zhou Ya stood frozen, his mind entirely occupied by what he’d just seen.

She’d only been wearing a loose long-sleeved t-shirt, cream-colored, with a wide collar, hem down to her thighs.

The sleeves were too long, comically so, like something out of an opera costume.

Sunlight was pouring in from the balcony, falling soft against her, and the not-too-thick fabric let light through, unable to hide the white and rosy hints beneath.

What really did Zhou Ya in was that this t-shirt used to be his.

He’d thought it was too thin, the light color too easy to stain, and had meant to throw it out — Fang Long had asked for it instead.

Fang Long said it was loose and soft enough to make a good sleep-shirt.

Good sleep-shirt, his ass.

Zhou Ya rubbed his face a few times, hurried to the entryway, grabbed his car keys, and left.

“Slam!”

The door shut hard — first the wooden door, then the security gate. Fang Long, sitting on the toilet, was startled enough that her stomach clenched, cutting off her stream mid-flow.

“What’s got him all fired up so early… his mood swings faster than March weather,” she muttered under her breath. “No wonder no girl wants to marry him. Idiot old man.”

Once she’d finished, she thought about dealing with the clothes she’d left soaking in the bucket last night — only to find the bucket empty.

She went to the balcony, and there was the sweatshirt, hanging on the drying rod, clean and white as new under the winter sun.

There was a sound of the door opening; Fang Long walked to the living room, and it was her aunt coming in.

“Oh my, you’re up so early?” Ma Huimin, carrying a grocery basket, asked the exact same question her son had.

“Got up to use the bathroom.” Fang Long went over and took the heavy basket from her, heading to the kitchen. “Zhou Ya just left — did you two run into each other?”

“We did. Chatted a bit downstairs — he’s out getting ingredients.”

Fang Long set the basket on the counter, thought for a moment, then still asked: “Auntie, that shirt I soaked in the bathroom last night — did you wash it for me?”

Ma Huimin, having changed into slippers, walked into the kitchen too, puzzled: “What shirt?”

Fang Long went silent for a few seconds, then shook her head and smiled: “Never mind, never mind. I must’ve been half-asleep, misremembered.”

Zhou Ya sat in the van and smoked two cigarettes before starting the engine and driving off.

The van was used specifically to haul ingredients — the back two rows of seats had been removed, leaving plenty of space, and despite being cleaned daily, it still carried a faint fishy smell.

There were several inner rivers running through An Town, with many bridges. The market Zhou Ya usually went to required crossing over the first bridge quickly.

The river water was a yellowish-brown, flowing steadily — not clear, but no floating trash and no bad smell either.

—In earlier years, littering and illegal dumping had been frequent, and the river pollution had been severe; the past couple years there’d been cleanup efforts, with decent results.

The bridge was narrow, both sides packed with street stalls; vegetable sellers who couldn’t get into the market set up shop here instead.

Zhou Ya stopped the van in front of one produce stall, pushed the door open, got out, and circled around to open the trunk.

The stall was run by a mother and daughter. The girl, still young-faced, came forward ahead of her mother, all smiles: “Brother A’ya, same as usual?”

“Yeah. Hemp leaf, kai-lan, water spinach, chun cai… give me an extra pound of the leafy greens. Bean sprouts, cilantro, all the usual.”

“Got it! Let me bag them for you.” The girl turned to go pick out the vegetables.

The stall’s older lady laughed: “Business is good for you, Boss Zhou.”

Zhou Ya was modest: “Not really, just getting by. How’s your husband’s health?”

This stall used to be run by the girl’s father — for years, he’d picked the vegetables fresh from his own fields every morning, a bit cheaper than the market stalls by a few coins, but the old man had broken his leg a few months back, so the burden had fallen on the older lady.

The lady said, gratified: “You’re so thoughtful, still remembering to ask about him. His bones are mostly healed — should be fine before long.”

“That’s good.”

By the time they’d finished talking, the girl had already packed four large bags of vegetables, the plastic bags stretched translucent.

“I’ll take those.” Zhou Ya walked over, grabbing two bags in each hand, as easily as if he were carrying two bags of eggs.

The girl looked at his bulging arm muscles and her face flushed hot.

She grabbed a bag of scallion scraps* she’d set aside by the cash box and handed it to Zhou Ya: “This is the extra I saved for you.”

Zhou Ya raised an eyebrow: “That’s a lot, isn’t it? How much? I’ll pay for it all together.”

“No need, no need, thank you for always supporting our family.” The girl put the bag straight into the van. “Wishing you good business!”

Zhou Ya didn’t push back this time, said his thanks, and paid the older lady.

After the van drove off, the girl was still craning her neck to look after it.

Her mother teased her: “A girl like you, staring after a man like some pervert. Sure, he comes every day, but that bag of scraps you packed was way too much — you’ll lose money at this rate.”

“He’s just so eye-catching,” the girl sighed. “What did he even eat as a kid to grow so tall and strong? Doesn’t look like he’s from around here at all.”

Men in the south generally weren’t tall — hitting 5’11” was already considered lucky by ancestral blessing — but someone like Boss Zhou, at 6’3″, you couldn’t find a second person like that in this small town even with a lantern.

Besides calling him A’ya, the vendors at the market also called him “Big Guy.”

The older lady counted her money, tucking the large bills into her waist pouch and dropping the coins into the cash box, and said: “Eh, didn’t your dad ever mention it? Boss Zhou’s probably not a local. Everyone in the neighborhood knows — he was adopted. Probably has some northern blood in him.”

————Author’s Ramblings————

*Scallion scraps: refers to things like scallions, ginger, garlic, cilantro, celery — vendors here give these away for free when you buy vegetables.

Also a gentle heads-up — my word choices in this book are going to be pretty coarse and blunt (smiles