The first time they met, he sat across from her consultation table and rested his wrist on the pulse pillow.
She put three fingers on it, looked up at him ten seconds later and said:
"Mr. Lu, your anger is almost reaching your eyebrows."
He didn't smile, and only said four words: "It's interesting."
Later he slapped the court summons on her desk.
Medical dispute, 480,000, his name is written in the column of the plaintiff's attorney.
In court, he questioned her about the scientific basis of each medicine, and he was very clear-cut.
She didn't lower her head the whole time, but she was mentally counting his pulse - it was still tight like the first time.
. . . . . .
On the day the case was settled, he stopped her in the court corridor.
The prescription note that had been folded so many times was taken out from the inner pocket of his suit, and the edges were almost frayed.
He stood with his head bowed for a long time and said in a hoarse voice:
"That recipe... Can I make it again?"
She put her hand on his wrist and let go after three seconds.
"Lawyer Lu," she curled her lips, "your heartbeat cannot be cured by prescription."
