Shen Jing's voice was tinged with fatigue. "The pipa performance is to honor the troupe, designated by the leader."
After a long while, Zhou Luchen finally stood up, lazily leaning on the sofa as he buttoned his shirt, covering the fingernail marks on his chest.
Shen Jing sat beside him, knees hugged to her chest, draped in a thin silk blanket for cover; he loved to turn the air conditioning up too high.
Occasionally, she glanced at the man beside her.
He picked up the cigarette case from the coffee table, tapped out a cigarette, held it to his lips, and tossed the lighter to her.
Shen Jing struck the flint wheel, and the flame leaped up. She moved it in front of Zhou Luchen and quietly lit his cigarette.
He took a deep drag, inhaling into his lungs, then suddenly grabbed the back of her head and maliciously blew the smoke into her face.
Shen Jing waved her hand through the air.