When the spotlight came down, Jiang Zhaozhao was using a utility knife to cut the last seam of the skirt.
The sound of the tearing fabric was very soft, like paper being torn open or an old envelope being opened. Some people in the audience gasped, some covered their mouths and laughed, and some lowered their heads to check their mobile phones. She didn't look or stop. The hem of the skirt split from the outside of the thigh, revealing the gray-blue cotton lining - which she had sewn herself. The stitches were crooked like a reptile, but every stitch was solid.
She stepped on high heels and walked to the center of the stage step by step. The heels clicked against the wooden floor, making a hollow echo. In the third row of the audience, Lin Zhixia was wearing an off-white long dress. She turned the red wine glass in her hand half a circle, her mouth didn't move, but her eyes lit up.
"Jiang Zhaozhao, are you doing performance art?" The host laughed dryly, leaving the microphone on and the sound echoed throughout the venue.
Jiang Zhaozhao didn't answer. She turned around, facing away from the audience, and raised her hand to pull down the torn skirt. The entire piece of fabric hung down like skin being peeled off. Finally, someone in the audience applauded, sparsely, like raindrops hitting the tin roof.
She didn't look back.
The lights backstage were cold white, illuminating the discarded fabrics, faded easels, and an uncovered box of acrylic paints piled in the corner. She was about to walk towards the side door, but her steps stopped.
