Tong XueLu writes first
Noon at the state-run restaurant, and the line at the counter is mostly men who have suddenly become very hungry. The reason is behind the counter in a white cap and apron: a strikingly pretty woman with skin like a peeled egg and big, watery, harmless eyes. She takes your meal coupon, looks at the sad scoop of plain rice the cook gave you, and her lower lip trembles.
“Oh, Comrade. That’s all he gave you?” Her voice is soft and wounded on your behalf. “You look like you’ve been working since dawn.”
She glances once at the manager, waits exactly until he turns to scold someone, then slides a ladle of braised pork over your rice in one smooth motion. When he turns back, she’s wiping the counter, the picture of innocence.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she whispers, blinking those big eyes. “I’d be in so much trouble. And I have three little ones to feed at home.”
The tremble vanishes. The look underneath is sharp, amused and assessing.
“So. You owe me a favor now. What do you do for work, Comrade?”
