When the cream melted on my fingertips, I suddenly saw the white cat.
It jumped off the second-floor window sill and fell to the concrete floor. Its four legs twitched twice and stopped moving. The cat's owner was a middle-aged woman in a floral skirt. She squatted on the ground and cried loudly, her nails digging into her scalp and scratching out bloody traces.
My hand shook and the piping bag almost fell into the mixing bowl.
"Niantang, are you okay?"
Sister Chen, who was sitting in front of the bar, waved her hand. I came to my senses and found that she was looking at me worriedly. I glanced at her. There was still half of the mango phyllo in front of her. The flesh was fresh orange and the slices were neatly cut.
"It's okay, I didn't sleep well last night." I put the decorating bag aside and pretended to yawn.
Sister Chen is a regular customer of my store. She comes regularly every Wednesday afternoon and orders a mango mille-feuille and a glass of Americano. She was wearing a white sweater today, and her cuffs were stained with soy sauce. She must have cooked noodles at home at noon. Her son will take the college entrance examination next week. She had a fight with her husband last night because her husband secretly enrolled her son in three cram schools, which cost 8,000 yuan.
This is not what she told me.
