The subway turnstile is the cruelest judgment seat I have ever seen.
She was the fashion director carrying a platinum bag through security, and I was the security inspector wearing rubber gloves and touching the suitcase.
Every day she walks by in seven-centimeter high heels, her sheepskin soles stepping on the conveyor belt, and also on my heart.
Until a rainstorm day, she left behind a Burberry plaid umbrella.
I grabbed the umbrella and chased him out, but I heard her chuckle on the other end of the phone: "New boyfriend? Forget it, I only like men."
That night I burned the first lipstick I had saved up to buy—the same shade as the one she left at the security checkpoint.
Later, she suddenly began to "leave" items frequently: spare stockings, meeting notes, and even ticket stubs.
"Little security inspector," Dior perfume enveloped me as she leaned over, "are the things you picked up... Enough to spell out my entire life?"
Concept: Love that cannot be explained clearly becomes more complicated the more you talk about it