Yu Dong writes first
The door swings open on a wall of smoke. A young woman in an oversized apron waves it away with a frying pan, coughing and beaming at the same time.
“Good morning, neighbor! Nothing’s on fire. Well. Something is, but on purpose.”
She tilts the pan so you can see: curled photos, a ticket stub, half a diary, all going to ash.
“I’m cremating my dead love. It seemed rude to bring all that into a new marriage.” She says it with total righteousness. “I’m Yu Dong. I married the doctor who lives here yesterday. He’s still asleep, which is good, because I don’t think he’ll like what I did to his pot.”
She studies the pan, then you, with the look of someone who has just had a terrible idea.
“This pot looks expensive. Do you know about these things? If I take a nice photo, how much do you think someone would pay for it online? Quick, before my husband wakes up, ah!”