Crucian carp and tofu soup

    Summer began, and the temperature suddenly soared. At five in the afternoon, she drew back the curtains, and the sunlight streamed in, as if it had been lurking for a long time, waiting for its prey to appear. Instinctively, she loosened the curtains, and the room returned to its dim state, but her eyes were still hurt, a slight pain requiring tears to soothe them.

    After breaking up with him, she quit her job. She stayed in her room, working from sunrise to sunset. She was determined to write down everything about him and her, and all the fantasies that hadn't yet come to pass. She had so many questions, and only in writing could she question him word by word, asking why, why? Only in writing could she give herself the unmistakable answers written in black and white.

    She flipped through a cookbook, pondering what to eat that evening. She didn't have much of an appetite, but to pass the time, every evening she would cook a dish for herself according to that cookbook. They had bought that cookbook together; she said she would cook all the dishes in it for him. She said she wanted to be a virtuous wife and loving mother to him, to live in perfect harmony with him. But now, she could only cook for herself.

    The room with the windows closed was stiflingly hot; summer had truly arrived. When she said goodbye to him, it was still the chilly early spring. She wished he were more heartless, even more heartless, so she could finally give up, completely give up! But he still took off his coat and wrapped it around her trembling body. Just as she was about to throw herself into his arms and burst into tears, he supported her, keeping his distance, and whispered, "Suo Suo, take care of yourself."

    Take care of yourself! She listened to him and decided to make crucian carp and tofu soup, good for the brain and beauty!

    When she went downstairs to the vegetable shop to buy crucian carp, there was only one large crucian carp left in the large basin. She hesitated; such a big fish was impossible for one person to finish. But in the end, she bought it anyway. She suddenly remembered that he had once made crucian carp and tofu soup for her. He had taught her to add ginger slices and rice wine to remove the fishy smell, and to sprinkle some cilantro after the fish was cooked to make the soup even more delicious.

    The resulting crucian carp and tofu soup was indeed delicious; the two of them fought over it, laughing and splashing the sauce everywhere!

    Thinking this, she bought the large crucian carp. She cleaned it. The recipe said to cut the crucian carp into several pieces, which was how he had done it before. She tried her best, but could only chop off the tail piece; the body was mangled beyond recognition, and she couldn't cut it cleanly in one stroke. Having no other choice, she threw most of the mangled fish into the pressure cooker. She disliked pressure cookers; the hissing sound frightened her. However, he had told her that using a pressure cooker to cook soup wouldn't cause nutrient loss. So, she used the pressure cooker, which felt like it might explode at any moment.

    The fish soup was ready, a large pot full! The fish, which hadn't broken apart, separated automatically after being pressure-cooked, though not as neatly as he had cut it. She inhaled the aroma of the fish, then suddenly realized she'd forgotten the cilantro. She hurried downstairs, bought a small bunch, washed and chopped it, and sprinkled it into the soup. Looking at the crucian carp and tofu soup she'd painstakingly made, she suddenly lost her appetite. How could she possibly eat such a large pot?

    It was already dark, but the heat was even more oppressive. She drew back the curtains and saw a man on the opposite balcony wearing an apron, fiddling with a pot and spatula, while a woman served him salt and vinegar. They were using a gas stove, and wisps of smoke rose from the balcony. She watched the man ladle the cooked food onto plates, and the woman carry the plates inside. The man turned off the stove, returned inside, and ate with the woman. She turned her gaze to her own crucian carp and tofu soup, scooped up a spoonful, took two symbolic sips, and put it down.

    She wrote all night and slept all day. She woke up hungry and remembered a large pot of leftover crucian carp and tofu soup from yesterday, so she put it on the induction cooker to heat it up. Her stomach rumbled, and the soup in the pot bubbled and gurgled. She lifted the lid and faintly smelled the odor of spoiled food. She lowered her head further; the smell was a mixture of fishy and rotten odors.

    She couldn't decide whether to throw away the whole pot of fish soup—so much of it, all the effort she'd put in, and now she was hungry. Hesitating, she sniffed again and again, and finally hardened her heart and poured it down the toilet. With a "whoosh," the water gushed from the bottom of the toilet, washing the fish pieces and tofu clean.

    Just then, the phone rang. It was her friend Amo inviting her to dinner. She hadn't been out in a long time, hadn't been around people, and had gradually become overly sensitive to sound and light. So, at first, she wanted to refuse. Amo said, "Come on, we've already made food and are waiting for you."

    So she went; all her old friends were there. Amo also cooked crucian carp and tofu soup, and she mentioned that she had cooked the same soup yesterday, but had thrown it away because she was afraid it would spoil by today, though she felt it was a waste. Amo said, "Luckily you threw it away; tofu can't be kept overnight, and getting sick from it would be even worse."

    As she left, Amo held her hand and said, "Suo Suo, you have to be good to yourself." They all knew about her situation, so they were careful when they brought it up. "

    It's time to let go, just like that fish soup," she told herself.