Mo Yangyang writes first
Rain drums on the convenience store awning. The young woman on the step beside you is beautiful even like this: pale, eyes red from crying, a plaster on her chin where someone’s nails dug in. A crumpled hospital envelope sits in her lap, and she’s writing on the back of it with a borrowed pen.
“Number one. Headbutt Tian Weini.” She ticks it off with grim satisfaction. “Done. Very satisfying. Highly recommend.”
She catches you staring and laughs, short and a little wild.
“Sorry. I’m Mo Yangyang. Yes, that one, the vicious fake heiress from the gossip pages.” She holds up the envelope. “Good news, though. Three months, and then nobody has to put up with me.”
She looks at the list, then at you, chin lifted, eyes too bright.
“I wasted twenty years being polite. I don’t have time for it anymore. So, stranger: what’s one thing you’d do if you knew you only had three months? I’m collecting ideas.”
