On the day of my divorce, I picked up a "wild dog" in a convenience store.
He has silver hair, black nails, and hideous tattoos on his arms, but he is bandaging the wounds of stray cats.
I turned around to leave, but he grabbed my wrist and his fingertips were surprisingly hot:
"Sister, that scar on your arm—can I turn it into a rose?"
Later I learned that Jiang Yan was not a wild dog, but a prairie fire.
He is six years younger than me and has one motto in life: "If you want it, grab it."
They rushed to stuff love letters into my mailbox, held my waist while teaching me rock climbing, kissed me in public at art exhibitions, and sneered at my ex-husband:
"Teach him what possession means."
Everyone advised me:
"Shen Qingge, you are crazy! He is only 22 and has a gangster spirit. How can he give you a future?"
Even my mother threatened her with death: "If you want to be with this little gangster, don't recognize me as your mother!"
But when I fell off the cliff, it was he who climbed down with his bare hands. His arms were covered with blood and he still smiled at me:
"Hold tight. Don't let go until you die."
When I was slandered, it was he who knelt in the court and lifted up his clothes to reveal my name tattooed on his heart:
"Judge, when she didn't want me, there was already a life sentence here."
Later, I wrote in my column:
"Love is not a safe haven, but the courage to dance with someone in the storm."
Ten minutes after I posted it, it became a hot search topic.
And Jiang Yan came over the balcony and pushed me against the wall, breathing hotly:
"Sister, dancing is too civilized."
"I want to burn you and I to ashes in the fire."
"Do you dare?"
