The Thirty-third Night

About This Novel

I waited on the overpass for thirty-two nights. Night thirty-three. Just when the lights on the overpass first came on, I finally spotted him. Like a spider web hanging horizontally in the sky, the overpass pulls out silver threads under the night cover, intertwining, tangled, surrounding, and circling from left to right, top to bottom, and several thick silk stems suddenly rush out of the network array, flickering and extending in all directions. At the intersection where the express lane leads to the sidewalk, he stepped out of the taxi, looked back, and walked slowly toward the garden under the bridge. There was a wave of hatred in my heart, and there was also a slight feeling of timidity.

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