Doce Vício de Jasmim

A tall man stepped across the threshold, his shoes landing heavily on the wooden plank.

Early spring had brought a gentle warmth, and life was bursting forth everywhere.

At four in the afternoon, East China Road, the busiest street in the city, teemed with crowds and streams of cars. Cen Mo slipped off her coat and carried it in her hand, her steps creaking on the worn wooden stairs. On the second floor, the pungent aroma of hot pot and the clamor of voices greeted her.

The restaurant’s north window was open, letting in the slanting, amber sunlight of late afternoon. Tiny motes of dust floated slowly in the air, resembling leaping notes on a taut drumhead.

"Spicy hot pot coming through! Please make way!" a server called out behind her.

Cen Mo stepped aside, leaning against the corridor railing. "Five girls who look like college students just came in. Which private room are they in?"

"Room five! This hot pot’s for your group," the server replied cheerfully.

She nodded, and by the time she squeezed into the narrow room, her roommate Huang Zhi and the others were already cooking vegetables in the tomato broth.

"Mo Mo! You’re so slow, why are you just getting here?" Huang Zhi stood up at once, her voice loud and tipsy.

Because she often worked part-time jobs, Cen Mo wasn't close with her roommates. She left early and returned late, barely seeing them, and naturally, they had little to talk about. Over time, the girls had simply excluded her from their small circle and seldom sp