The Night I Sold My Soul to a Hot Glue Gun

The parent chat group buzzed at four in the afternoon.

"Please use the weekend to create a handmade Mid-Autumn lantern with your child. Bring it to school on Monday morning."

He glanced at it, locked the screen, and tossed the phone onto the couch. While he was chopping vegetables, the phone buzzed again in his pocket. He wiped his hands on his apron and opened a short video app. A title caught his eye: "Even the clumsy can do it, 30 seconds to a stunning Mid-Autumn lantern." In the video, a hot glue gun flew up and down, and golden paper cups magically transformed into a honeycomb palace lantern, dangling with red tassels.

He watched three tutorials. After finishing the potatoes, he dug out last year's red envelopes, felt they weren't grand enough, and went back to the golden paper cup tutorial. That night, he added items to his shopping cart three times, finally setting the quantity of the hot glue gun to "2."

Saturday afternoon. Kickoff.

Thirty golden paper cups sat on the living room coffee table. The little girl stood on a stool, holding a handful of markers. "Daddy, can I draw on them?"

He handed her a piece of scrap paper. "Draw a circle first."

She drew a crooked circle. He glanced at it, put the markers back in the drawer, and picked up the glue gun.

The first fourteen cups glued together smoothly. Arrange, apply, press. He thought he might have a knack for this. By the fifteenth, the glue flow became uneven. He squeezed hard, and a drop of scalding transparent liquid fell onto his left index finger.

"Hiss—" He threw down the glue gun and shoved his finger into his mouth. A faint smell of burnt plastic mixed with saliva. The little girl leaned in. "Daddy, are you bleeding?"

"No. Go get me that tassel."

She ran back with a bundle of red tassels, slipped, and fell onto the carpet. Red silk threads scattered everywhere; a few tangled around the coffee table legs, a few fell into his cup of hot tea. The little girl froze, her eyes turning red.

"It's fine." He pulled two tissues, bent down to pick up the tassels, wiped them dry, and set them aside. "Go watch cartoons. Daddy needs to finish this."

She pouted and left. The living room went quiet, save for the sizzle of the glue gun.

One-thirty in the morning. The coffee table was full. Thirty-seven paper cups formed a disc nearly half a meter wide. He tried adding bamboo skewers to the bottom for a skeleton. The first time, the glue wasn't dry, the center of gravity shifted, and with a crash, half the paper cups collapsed. The red tassels were pressed underneath, like a crushed pool of blood.

He stared at the ruins. The blister on his fingertip had burst, revealing bright red tender flesh. It throbbed whenever it touched the table.

He picked up his phone, opened the delivery app, and typed in the search bar: "Mid-Autumn lantern ready-made same-city express."

Several options popped up. The cheapest was eighty-nine yuan, a pink plastic revolving lantern with cartoon rabbits. "One-hour delivery." His thumb hovered over the orange "Order Now" button.

A WeChat banner slid down from the top. The parent group. The teacher had sent a new message: "Before eight tomorrow morning, please bring the children's works to the class."

He exited the delivery app, switched to his photo album, and looked at a photo from that afternoon. The little girl stood on the stool, the tip of her nose stained with gold powder, throwing up a peace sign at the camera.

He put down the phone and picked up the glue gun. He tore off the collapsed cups one by one, scraped off the hardened glue, and reapplied the adhesive. This time, he didn't wear a thimble. He let the hot glue burn into his fingertips, pressing firmly, counting down five seconds.

Three-forty in the morning. The thirty-seven paper cups were reassembled. The red tassels were secured to the bottom with a stapler. The overall thing looked like a drunken honeycomb, completely asymmetrical.

He looked at it, didn't take a picture, and went to take a shower.

At seven-thirty on Monday morning, on the paving stones downstairs, the half-meter giant cast an irregular shadow in the morning light. The little girl held it with her right hand, her left hand swiping in the air for balance. She hadn't taken two steps before she tripped on a step, the tassels sweeping across the rough tiles, picking up a layer of dust.

He didn't reach out to steady her. She steadied herself, turned around, her face still smeared with the half-dried glue mark from last night, and grinned, revealing a gap from a missing front tooth.

"Daddy, my lantern is the biggest."

At the kindergarten entrance, a few parents carrying exquisite bamboo-woven rabbit lanterns passed by. Their gazes rested on the massive, slightly distorted paper cup honeycomb for two seconds. He lowered his head, pulled a pack of tissues from his pocket, and rubbed the two swollen blisters on his right index finger.

"Yes," he said. "Hurry inside, don't be late."

After school, the crooked lantern hung by the bedside. The red tassels dangled beside the pillow. He stood at the bedroom door with a bowl of reheated leftover porridge. The little girl had already snuggled under the covers and pointed at the lantern. "Daddy, can we keep the light on tonight? I want to look at it while I sleep."

"No. It wastes electricity."

"Then can we keep the hallway light on?"

He looked at the paper cup lantern swaying slightly in the air conditioning draft, rustling. The shadows of the red tassels danced back and forth on the ceiling.

"Okay." He turned off the main bedroom light, leaving a crack in the door.

"See you tomorrow."

He closed the door, went to the living room, and picked up the half-used tube of hot glue. The blisters on his fingers glistened under the light. He peeled a band-aid and wrapped them again. Scattered on the coffee table were golden paper scraps and a few cut red cotton threads. He grabbed a broom, swept it clean, dumped it into the trash can, turned off the lights, and went to bed.