harleyscars Chapter 138
Chapter 138
Lin Feng changed his shoes and walked to the kitchen door.
The stove was empty, there were no half-cut vegetables on the cutting board, and no unwashed bowls soaking in the sink. The pot on the gas stove was cleanly upside down on the dish rack, though the grease on the bottom hadn't been completely washed off.
Cheng Yuxin's room door was ajar, and the sound of turning pages could be heard from inside.
Lin Feng knocked on the door.
"Come in."
Cheng Yuxin sat at her desk, a thick textbook lying open in front of her. She wore a white short-sleeved shirt, her hair still wet and draped over her shoulders, as if she had just taken a shower; the air smelled faintly of shampoo, like grapefruit. The desk lamp was on, its orange light casting a warm glow on the pages of the book.
"Are you writing a thesis?" Lin Feng asked.
"Hmm. Almost finished." She looked up and rubbed her eyes. There were faint dark circles under her eyes, as if she had been staying up for several days in a row. "It's due at the end of the month, only about ten pages left."
Lin Feng glanced at the stack of materials on the table—lined paper, with small, densely written characters in blue-black ink, piled up page after page, probably more than twenty pages in total. Cheng Yuxin's handwriting was very neat, each character upright and legible, like printed text.
"You write first, I'll cook," Lin Feng said.
Cheng Yuxin was stunned for a moment.
"You cook?"
"I can make scrambled eggs with tomatoes." Lin Feng turned and walked towards the kitchen.
Cheng Yuxin stood up, wanting to follow, but Lin Feng closed the door.
The kitchen window faces west, and the evening sunlight streams in from the west, slanting across the stove. Lin Feng takes three eggs and a tomato from the refrigerator. The eggs, bought by Cheng Yuxin last week, are in the egg compartment on the refrigerator door, a tiny chicken feather still clinging to their shells. The tomato is small, its red color uneven, with a slight green at the stem.
He first washed the tomatoes and chopped them into small pieces. His knife skills weren't great, so the pieces were all different sizes, but he chopped with great focus, the blade making a steady, rhythmic tapping sound on the cutting board. He cracked the eggs into a bowl and whisked them with chopsticks; they were a bright yellow.
The pan was hot, and he poured in the oil—but he hadn't controlled the oil temperature well; there was water in the pan when he poured it in, and oil splattered out, burning a small red dot on the back of his hand, like being pricked by a needle. He pulled his hand back and turned the heat down.
The eggs were poured into the pan with a sizzling sound, the edges quickly solidifying and the color changing from bright yellow to golden yellow. With a flick of his wrist, the eggs broke into small pieces, releasing a fragrant aroma.
Then add the tomatoes, stir-fry, add salt, and a little sugar.
Fifteen minutes later, a plate of scrambled eggs with tomatoes was on the table. The color wasn't very appealing—the tomatoes were overcooked, almost like a paste, and the eggs were a bit overcooked—but it smelled alright.
By the time I finished cooking, it was already dark, and only a sliver of light remained on the stove and white steam rising from the pot in the kitchen.
Cheng Yuxin came out of the room and stood by the dining table, looking at the dish.
"It looks alright," she said.
She picked up her chopsticks, took a bite, and chewed.
"It's delicious." She looked at Lin Feng, her eyes shining—not from the reflection of the ceiling light, but a light that shone from within. Cheng Yuxin's smile was beautiful; the curve of her lips was just right, neither too much nor too little.
The next day, Lin Feng bought a copy of the "China Sports Daily".
The newsstand was right next to the community store at the entrance of the residential area. Every morning, the old man would push his bicycle to get supplies, a large stack of newspapers tied tightly with plastic rope on the back seat, and then he would pedal back on his tricycle. The June sun shone on the plastic covers of the newspapers, reflecting a blinding light. When Lin Feng passed by on his way to work, the newspapers were still unopened, neatly stacked next to his small stool. He said, "A sports newspaper, please." The old man bent down, pulled one out from under the covers, and handed it to him. The smell of ink mixed with the damp scent of morning dew wafted up to him.