Entertainment from Divorce

At 1:17 a.m., the humid and hot air of the southern city weighed heavily on the filming location of the "Floating City" crew, like a piece of cotton soaked in water.

Qi Xue slumped in the back seat of the van, her costume collar soaked with sweat, leaving varying shades of salt stains that clung stickily to her collarbone.

Outside the car window, beams of searchlight pierced the thick night, casting huge shadows among the distant antique-style buildings, like giant beasts lurking in the darkness.

"Teacher Qi, the next session will be in forty minutes."

Assistant Xiaolin ran over with a thermos cup. The lid wasn't screwed on tightly, and brown tea dripped through her fingers onto her beige shorts, leaving tiny stains. "The director said he wants you to rest a bit more. That take was so emotionally charged, and he wants to let you catch your breath while the lighting crew adjusts the equipment."

Qi Xue tugged at the hem of her tight-fitting cheongsam, revealing skin already soaked with sweat beneath the cool silk.

She raised her hand to press her temples in front of the vanity mirror in the car. The woman in the mirror still had tear stains on her eyes—the traces left from filming a crying scene half an hour earlier.

Her delicate makeup was smudged by sweat, like a watercolor painting dampened by rain, showing a bit of messiness, but also a kind of broken beauty.

"I understand." Her voice was hoarse from crying, as if it had been gently rubbed by sandpaper.

My gaze swept over the half-eaten meal from the film crew sitting in the passenger seat. The greens in the white styrofoam box had turned yellow, and the rice had clumped together into stiff lumps. The warmth it had when it was delivered at six o'clock in the afternoon had long since vanished.

A hollow, cramping pain came from her stomach, as if an invisible hand was gently twisting inside, reminding her that she had only drunk two iced Americanos since noon.

My phone screen suddenly lit up with a notification from the production crew in their group chat: "Camera number three is experiencing a line malfunction, and a delay of one hour is expected."

Qi Xue irritably threw her phone onto her lap, and half of her black velvet slippers came off, revealing her toes painted with mauve nail polish.

The edges of my nails are a little white, a mark left by long hours of filming.

June in the South is always like this; there's no coolness at all, even late at night.

The car window was slightly ajar, letting in a gust of wind carrying moisture, which ruffled the stray strands of hair that fell over her shoulders. Strands of hair clung to the corners of her lips, carrying a faint scent of hairspray.

In the distance came the shouts of the crew, the clanging of metal equipment, and the hum of an electric fan from somewhere, creating a noisy yet weary scene on a film set late at night.

She curled up her legs and leaned against the car door, suddenly craving something hot.

Once this thought arises, it grows wildly like a vine, spreading through the blood vessels to every part of the body.

Qi Xue picked up her phone again, but the fingerprint recognition failed three times when she tried to unlock the screen—her fingers were a little damp from holding the script for so long.

She opened Weibo, hesitated for a moment on the virtual keyboard, and typed a few lines:
"It's 1 a.m. on set, and my stomach is rumbling. I suddenly really miss the sweet and sour taste of sweet and sour pork, the smoky aroma of spare ribs, and freshly made pancakes..."

The accompanying photo shows a night view taken from a car window: spotlights from the film set cast halos of light against the dark blue sky, and scattered lights illuminate the windows of distant residential buildings, like weary eyes.

When the notification popped up that the message had been successfully sent, Qi Xue stared at her own avatar on the screen for a moment, lost in thought.

That was a photo from a magazine shoot last year. She was wearing a red velvet dress, smiling radiantly, and her eyes shone much brighter than they do now.

The comments section became lively almost instantly.

"Is your sister still filming? It must be so tiring!"

"Sweet and sour pork +1! My grandma's sweet and sour pork is the best in the world!"

"Are the boxed lunches from the Southern film crew really that bad? I feel so sorry for Teacher Qi Xue [hug]"

"Which city is this? The background looks a bit like Suzhou?"

"I just saw a post from the other production team saying that your filming is going very slowly. Are your standards very high?"

"Sister, it's time to find a husband. I heard that Li Lu's husband is always on set with her when she's filming."

Qi Xue's fingertips slid across the screen, her gaze lingering on the last comment.

She has a husband too.

It's just that outsiders don't know it.

Tan Yue, her husband's name, is like a button forgotten in the corner of a drawer. You don't usually think about it, but when you occasionally glimpse it, you pause for a moment to realize its existence.

They have been married for three years.

When they first got together, Tan Yue would make her breakfast in different ways every day. When she went to film in another city, he would carry a thermos and take a train for more than ten hours to come over, just so that she could have something hot to eat.

Back then, she would always laugh and say that he was being raised like a pig, her sweet tone almost sickeningly sweet.

But at some point, those details that once moved her gradually became boring.

His perfectly ironed shirts, his ever-punctual morning alarm clock, and even the blue plaid apron he wore while cooking became symbols that suffocated her.

Like a glass of lemonade with too much sugar, it tastes refreshing and sweet at first, but by the end, all that's left is an overpowering sweetness.

The phone vibrated, and Tan Yue's WeChat profile picture popped up on the screen—it was a photo they took when they were newly married. He was wearing a white T-shirt, smiling foolishly, and she was leaning on his shoulder, her eyes crinkling. Qi Xue's finger hovered above the screen, hesitant to tap it.

The last message in the chat box was from three days ago: "The crew is busy, no need to call every day."

Taking a deep breath, she finally opened the message. Tan Yue had only sent one sentence, as concise as his usual style: "I saw on your Weibo that you said you were hungry, so I'll make you something to eat and bring it over?"

Qi Xue's heart skipped a beat for no apparent reason, followed by an indescribable surge of irritation.

She quickly typed: "No need, the crew has food. You should go to sleep early." After sending the message, she silenced her phone and tossed it back into her bag, as if that would shut her out the complex emotions brought on by that name.

The hunger pangs in my stomach grew stronger, like countless tiny insects slowly gnawing at my internal organs.

Qi Xue closed her eyes, but the image of Tan Yue cooking kept flashing through her mind.

He always wore that blue plaid apron, and his tall figure looked somewhat clumsy in the kitchen. He would unconsciously frown when chopping vegetables, and if oil splattered on his hands, he would just grimace and continue working.

Northern kitchens are always warm and cozy, especially in winter. The heating is on full blast, the ribs stewing in the pot are bubbling away, and the steamed buns in the steamer are emitting a wheat aroma. Fine beads of sweat will appear on Tan Yue's forehead, but he always says, "That's what makes it feel like home cooking."

Fireworks.

Qi Xue gave a self-deprecating smile.

The southern city she was in was so damp that even the air was filled with moisture; there was no trace of everyday life to be found there.

The lights on set suddenly dimmed considerably, and the production assistant shouted through a megaphone, "All departments, get ready! Filming will resume in five minutes!" Qi Xue opened her eyes and saw the makeup artist walking quickly towards her with a powder puff. She instinctively straightened her back and put on a professional smile again.

No matter how much turmoil she felt inside, the moment the camera was on her, she had to be the person in the script.

This is a basic quality of an actor, and also a survival rule she has learned after years of struggling in this industry.

Meanwhile, in a northern city thousands of miles away, Tan Yue was standing by the window of his kitchen, repeatedly stroking his phone screen with his fingers.

Qi Xue's reply was like a bucket of cold water poured over his head and down to his feet, instantly sobering him up.

He knew it would be like this.

Over the past three years, Qi Xue has become increasingly indifferent to him. She no longer clings to his arm and acts coquettishly like before, no longer chatters on the phone about the fun things that happened on set, and even the way she looks at him carries a distant politeness.

Tan Yue wasn't stupid; he could sense that the invisible wall between them was growing higher and higher, but he didn't know how to tear it down.

He only knows how to treat her well in his own way.

She casually mentioned that she liked the roasted chestnuts from that shop in the south of the city, and he braved the heavy snow to queue for two hours to buy them; when she sprained her ankle while filming, he took leave overnight to fly to her side and clumsily learned to massage her; when she casually complained that the script was too hard to memorize, he entered all the lines into his memo, marking pauses and accents.

But none of these things seemed to make the wall any shorter.

The northern city outside the window had long since fallen asleep, with only a few streetlights casting a dim yellow glow on the snow. Winter had come exceptionally early this year; it was only early November, and several snowfalls had already occurred. Tan Yue looked at the frost flowers that had formed on the windowpane and remembered Qi Xue always saying that winters in the south were damp and cold, much harder to endure than in the north.

She must be freezing right now. She definitely hasn't eaten properly.

Once this idea pops into your head, it grows wildly like weeds.

Tan Yue turned and walked into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. Inside, various ingredients were neatly arranged, all of which were Qi Xue's favorite foods.

He remembered that she liked to eat fresh pork tenderloin, so he went to the supermarket yesterday to buy some.
The ribs were freshly bought from the market that morning, still bloody; the flour was Hetao flour, which she specifically requested, saying it was the best for making pancakes.

He tied on the blue checkered apron with practiced ease, as if he'd rehearsed it a thousand times. The tap water in the sink gurgled, the icy water flowing over his fingers, but it did nothing to calm him down. The cleaver landed on the cutting board with a resounding thud, exceptionally clear in the quiet of the night.

The pork tenderloin was sliced ​​into even, thin slices and placed in a bowl. Cooking wine, salt, pepper, and cornstarch were added, and the mixture was stirred by hand. Tan Yue's fingers were strong and powerful, his nails neatly trimmed. He handled the meat with gentle, delicate movements, as if handling a rare treasure. He remembered that Qi Xue didn't like things too salty, and each time he added salt, he would carefully pinch off a tiny bit with his fingertips.

The oil in the pan began to steam, and Tan Yue carefully placed slices of meat into it one by one, the sizzling sound instantly filling the entire kitchen. The white meat slices gradually turned golden brown, and the air was filled with the unique aroma of fried food. He stood in front of the stove, intently watching the meat in the pan, and fine beads of sweat quickly appeared on his forehead.

The first time Qi Xue ate his sweet and sour pork was when they had just met. At that time, in order to prevent Qi Xue from going hungry while filming, he specially went to Jishui to learn the recipe from a famous chef. Later, Qi Xue missed dinner because she was filming late at night. He secretly made her a bowl of sweet and sour pork. He put in too much oil and not enough sugar, so the taste was far from good, but she ate it with relish, with sauce on the corners of her mouth, like a kitten stealing a treat.

"Tan Yue, your sweet and sour pork is so delicious." She looked up, her eyes sparkling. "It's even better than my mom's."

From then on, he practiced making sweet and sour pork diligently.

He tried again and again to figure out how to make the meat slices more tender, how to make the sauce thicker, and how to make the color more golden, filling an entire notebook with notes.

Later, Qi Xue's fame grew, and she ate countless delicacies, but every time she went home, she would still pester him to make her sweet and sour pork.

"Your cooking is still the best." That's what she always said back then, her eyes curving into crescents, with sweet and sour sauce on the corners of her mouth.

Tan Yue paused, feeling a tightness in his chest, as if something was blocking it.

He took a deep breath and placed the starch-coated meat slices into the hot oil. With a sizzle, the white meat slices instantly puffed up and turned into a golden-brown crust. He used long chopsticks to keep turning the meat slices until each one was fried until golden and crispy.

Next came preparing the sauce. Sugar, vinegar, light soy sauce, cooking wine, and cornstarch—the proportions had to be just right. As Tan Yue stirred, she recalled Qi Xue's taste; she liked a perfect balance of sweet and sour, not too cloying, not too sour. The sauce bubbled and steamed in the pot, releasing a rich aroma—the unique taste of home.

The final step is to pour the fried pork slices into the sauce and stir-fry quickly. The golden pork slices, coated in the amber sauce, glisten and look incredibly appetizing. Tan Yue scoops the sweet and sour pork out and puts it into a thermal container, her movements as gentle as if she were performing some kind of sacred ritual.

Next came the fried pork ribs. He remembered that Qi Xue liked pork ribs with a bit of fat, saying that they would be more fragrant when fried that way. The ribs had been marinated in soy sauce, cooking wine, and thirteen-spice powder for two hours beforehand, and were now fully flavorful. They were then placed in hot oil and quickly fried to an enticing reddish-brown color, crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside.

Finally, it was time to make the pancakes. He poured the Hetao flour into a bowl, added warm water, stirred it with chopsticks until it formed clumps, and then kneaded it into a smooth dough. Tan Yue's hands were large and strong, and he kneaded the dough with great force, gradually making it more elastic. While the dough rested, he began preparing the oil paste, adding heated lard to the flour and stirring until well combined; the aroma instantly filled the air.

The dough is rolled into a thin sheet, spread with oil paste, rolled into a strip, cut into small pieces, and rolled into round cakes. A frying pan is heated, a little oil is added, and the cakes are placed in and slowly cooked over low heat. Soon, small bubbles appear on the surface of the cakes, emitting an enticing aroma of wheat.

Tan Yue carefully flipped the pancake with a spatula until both sides were golden brown, crispy on the outside and tender on the inside.

He packed the sweet and sour pork, fried pork ribs, and flatbread into three separate insulated boxes, wrapped them up tightly, and then put them into a large insulated bag.

He checked the time; it was already 2:30 a.m. The next flight to Suzhou was in three hours, and he had to get to the airport before then.

Tan Yue took off his apron, quickly put on his coat, grabbed his insulated bag, and ran outside. (End of Chapter)