The husband was a geologist, a profession in which it’s common to be away on official business for extended periods of time. He always threw his haversack on his back and left home. The wife never bothered to see him off. When he went downstairs and exited the building, he never looked back.
The husband was ready to get away, again. When the door banged shut behind him, she was clearing the dishes from the table, as if nothing were on her mind. But shortly afterwards, she put down what she was holding, ran toward the balcony, and looked down. Below the balcony was a road, on one side of which grew a row of steamed bread-like willows. Each willow had a very big and green crown, but, from upstairs, it looked more like a tent than steamed bread. Habitually, she looked down at the area where the eighth steamed bread-like willow from the east stood below the balcony. She was waiting, knowing that in five or six minutes, the figure of her husband would appear under the eighth willow. The door to the residential building opened to the opposite side of the balcony. Thus, if someone wanted to walk out that door, pass the residential building, and go toward the subway station, he or she would certainly pass by the eighth steamed bread-like willow before disappearing under the police box. Every time, she was gratified to see the broad back of her husband at the expected time and location, especially wearing the canvas haversack that he had designed and she had remade. She always sent her silent blessings to that back and haversack. She had never told her husband this secret, and even their son was completely unaware of it.
This time, as she stood on the balcony out of habit, something soon felt wrong because the figure of her husband had not appeared. He had to take the subway directly to the Beijing Railway Station, so it was impossible to change the routine. Why hadn’t his figure passed by the eighth steamed bread-like willow? In her panicked state, she acutely realized the importance of this habitual moment and the reassuring glimpse of her husband. She couldn’t help running downstairs, only to find nothing in the doorway. Soon, she found herself under the eighth steamed bread- like willow, looking around. Did he go underground or fly into the sky? It was astonishing! She nearly rushed into the police box for help. When she returned home, she didn’t hear what her son said to her. Instead, she heard an ambulance siren in the street from a distance. The siren became louder before fading into the distance again. Feeling down, she became angry at her son for no reason.
She remained in low spirits the following few days. Sometimes, she laughed at herself, while other times, she reasoned that something was out of joint. One evening, she finally received a call from her husband, who was far from home. She couldn’t help crying: “Where the hell have you been? You scared me to death!” The husband was baffled. Then, she poured out her heart to him, telling him that every time they parted, she pretended everything was fine, yet always rushed to the balcony to look for his figure appearing under the eighth steamed bread-like willow. There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then came the deeply touched voice of her husband: “You fool! That day, I happened to meet Mr. Wang from our building when I went out the door. He was taking his organization’s car to the railway station, so I asked him for a ride. You’re so literal-minded… Still, I do know that steamed bread-like willow. Yeah, the eighth one. You know, every time I come back from a business trip, I act like nothing ever happened. However, in fact, the moment I pass that steamed bread-like willow, I can’t help looking up at our balcony and windows. Sometimes, I stand there for quite a few minutes, especially at night. The lights in our windows always make me love you so much.” As she put down the phone, she saw her son standing in front of her, asking: “Mom, why are you crying? 
Selected from A World Away from Fairy Tales, compiled by China Flash Fiction Society, and published by New World Press.
