Zhu Jingru didn’t want to know whether or not his jinxing was effective, but it certainly affected his sleep.
It was still early when Tang Chen called the next morning. Zhu Jingru hadn’t slept at all; he was primping in front of the mirror, having just washed his face, with water droplets still clinging to his skin.
“There are more than ten light signs in the store, and they definitely can’t mix those damn colors. So, you have to come personally. I’ve told them all to wait.”
“Alright, Xiao Tang.” Zhu Jingru agreed readily. The second he hung up, he started shaving and blow-drying his hair. He had been raising pigs in South America, where conditions were lacking, and hadn’t properly groomed himself in a long time. Now, he was making himself presentable again.
Half an hour later, the sunlight streamed gently through the skylight directly above the bed. It was a rare sunny day, and the light and shadows fell at Zhu Jingru’s feet as he was still changing his trousers.
One last look in the mirror before going out: a white long-sleeved T-shirt under a loose black knit sweater, lazy and comfortable, with his usual two silver rings in one ear.
Zhu Jingru exhaled into the wind after leaving, his carefully styled hair immediately ruffled. He couldn’t help but curve his lips into a smile and simply swept it back.
Yinhe Road was quite deserted in the early morning, unlike the one in Zhu Jingru’s memory. The surrounding shops were mostly new, the street signs repainted with green lacquer, even the roadside plants had changed. The only familiar sight was the long ginkgo avenue.
Getting out of the car, he saw two people standing in front of the bar. Zhu Jingru greeted them first, offering cigarettes and water as he approached.
However, they stared at each other for more than ten seconds; no one took anything.
The painter was vigorously chewing on a corn cob, while his apprentice gnawed on a meat bun. Both of their faces were wrapped in black head coverings to ward off the cold, revealing only their eyes, nostrils, and mouths, looking like two bank robbers.
They stared blankly at Zhu Jingru, whose appearance and attire resembled a celebrity, fearing they would spray out the food in their mouths.
For a moment, the scene was awkward.
Zhu Jingru lowered his head and stared affectionately at the meat bun, not finding anything wrong with the atmosphere. After all, he could strike up conversations and build rapport with twenty stray dogs in Florence, let alone people.
So, he put his left arm around the painter and his right arm around the apprentice.
The three men squatted neatly on the steps in front of the bar, their conversation ranging from nonsense to utter drivel, from brotherly bonding to intense chatter, from the difficulties of doing business and the importance of skills to family matters.
Zhu Jingru managed to chat with them as if they had known each other for years, successfully obtaining a meat bun without any airs or arrogance. As they talked, they smoked and mixed paints together, quite the sociable fellow.
The topic suddenly turned to marriage. The painter asked, “Brother Zhu, are you married? My eldest daughter is about your age. If you’re not married, well, she’d be head over heels for you if she saw you.”
“Then she can’t see me.”
“Why?”
Zhu Jingru smiled, “She and I both like men.”
The paintbrush slipped from the painter’s hand: “…”
Zhu Jingru obligingly picked it up for him.
The apprentice, still young, spoke stiffly, trying to ease the tension, “It’s normal to like men these days… it’s very trendy… Boss Zhu is young and successful… even caught up with the trend… haha.”
The painter silently lowered his head, trying to discreetly distance himself from Zhu Jingru.
However, Zhu Jingru, full of mischief, followed every move the painter made, pretending not to hear, “What?”
The painter, a man of age, seeing the menacing homosexual about to reach out and “corrupt” him, clenched his fists, unable to bear it any longer. He stood up and yelled a few words, then suddenly remembered he had forgotten to turn off the gas at home. This job didn’t need to be paid for.
Without waiting for a reply, he ran off as if chased by a ghost, leaving his apprentice behind.
He ran really fast, disappearing in a flash.
Zhu Jingru regretfully withdrew his gaze and smiled at the bewildered apprentice.
Three minutes later, he scared off another person. Zhu Jingru squatted on the steps, painting alone, his fingers and black sweater stained with paint. Before he knew it, the sun was high in the sky.
Yinhe Road became lively. Zhu Jingru stretched after finishing his work, wanting to lie down and sleep on the nearby lawn. Unfortunately, he still had to clean up the paint, tools, and the general mess.
Exhausted, he could only rely on physical means. Yawning, Zhu Jingru didn’t go far before his eyes widened. Across the zebra crossing, he saw an unfamiliar coffee shop. The two characters “South Bank” were written on the wooden signboard with a single, powerful stroke.
Pushing open the glass door, the wind chimes tinkled, a clear, ethereal, and pleasant sound.
“Welcome.” The shop assistant’s voice drifted over, a slightly husky, smoky voice, strangely sensual, with a melodious intonation.
In the words of young people, listening to it for too long could get your ears pregnant.
Zhu Jingru, his face flushed, walked to the counter, his gaze direct.
The man standing alone inside wore a light brown apron. He was tall, and his white cotton and linen shirt was not at all professional, but rather exuded an aloof, unapproachable aura.
He looked up and met Zhu Jingru’s gaze. He wasn’t young, with experience etched between his brows. His nose was high and straight, his skin as white as soft tofu, but his sanpaku eyes, with their jet-black, sharp pupils, stared with exceptional calmness and indifference. His lips were pressed into a subtle curve, his face expressionless. His features combined to create an image both cold and mature.
The most striking thing was his gaze, intensely compelling. A man like this was too aggressive, reminding Zhu Jingru of a wild wolf he had seen on a glacier in northwest China a few years ago.
He seemed to have asked a second time, “What would you like to drink?”
Zhu Jingru came back to his senses and casually ordered a latte. After paying, he found a chair by the window, a perfect spot for daydreaming. He propped his head up, looking out the window but actually staring at the reflection in the glass — every movement was steady, coupled with that impassive, asexual face, the epitome of abstinence. Now he turned around to grind coffee beans, his buttocks pert and his legs long. Even Zhu Jingru, as picky as he was, couldn’t find any flaws.
As he watched, it was as if his head had been kicked by a donkey again.
Zhu Jingru lowered his head, took a deep breath, and earnestly searched on his phone, “Is it a disease to fall for someone at first sight?”
This time, he was really dead.
Killed by handsomeness.
