My Love and the Jianghu

When I'm bored, I pour myself a drink and light a cigarette.

I quietly watch the women emerge from the smoke, some alluring, some seductive, some so tender they're beyond compare.

I once had a marriage, a marriage that was over in the blink of an eye.

Given where I am now, I've tried and struggled too. A woman's purpose is nothing more than serving as a tonic or a plaything. What else is there to it?

One commenter left a coolly worded message below my post:

"The meaning of women is the greatest meaning of men's existence in this world."

"If you can think that way, it only shows that one or several women have hurt you deeply. Even without women, there's plenty of hurt in this world. So it's your problem, not women's."

"You're right," I said. "I surrender."

"Then," she replied quickly, her words clearly hinting at her slyness, "start telling your story. I'm already waiting with bated breath."

"All right," I replied. "Let's begin."

My story began at two in the morning on Valentine's Day.

This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. Please do not imitate.