When I was an office drone in the city, I dreamed of the day I'd wake up naturally, without having to read my director's mood from his balding head.
Then one day, after I got chewed out for entering an Excel formula wrong, I stared at his shiny scalp and suddenly saw the light: I'm done with this job!
I packed my bags and went back to Qingxi Town, bought a secondhand truck for three thousand yuan that rattled everywhere except the bell, and put up the red cloth my mom had used at her wedding to start a fruit stall.
I thought I'd spend my days in peace with oranges and watermelons, but the Shiba Inu I brought home, Zhao Cai, was even more trouble than me:
He stole Aunt Li's youtiao and got chased for three blocks, snatched Grandpa Wang's spicy strips as a trophy, wagged his tail and played nice whenever he saw Su Wan from the bookstore next door, then turned around and chewed a hole in her bamboo basket.
Even more ridiculous, that goofy face made him the town's “stall guardian beast.” The ladies buying fruit weren't interested in whether the oranges were sweet. They only asked, “Can I pet your dog?”
Su Wan kept coming to buy two jin of oranges, blushing every time as she said, “Don't throw away the cardboard box. I need it for my books.” But I saw her turning all the misshapen fruit I couldn't sell into jam.
Later, I realized there was no such thing as a peaceful life in a small town. It was all chaos and commotion:
Like when Zhao Cai swallowed a proposal ring. Like when my fruit stall turned into the Qingxi Fruit Shop chain. Like when Su Wan leaned against my shoulder and said, “See? Zhao Cai is much more reliable than you.”
Oh well, I've already set up my stall, so I might as well keep living this way. After all, having a dog, having her, and having fruit is much sweeter than the city's KPIs.
