Love your resume

Walking with friends down a neon street full of people

We talked and laughed.

Suddenly a low SOB came to my ears. I let it go at first. I kept talking.

A woman by the side of the road bowed her head, her hands covering her face, her long hair cascading down her shoulders like silk, trembling. I turned to see a few eyes, a familiar feeling arises spontaneously, such hair, such a voice, once let me be entranced, heart yearning.

I found an excuse to skip the line and strode over to her side. Instead of talking directly to her, I wandered around, staring at her with a guilty stare.

Colorful lights shrouded her in mysterious, hazy colors. If I can't control my expression, I must look like a hungry man.

She was still weeping to herself. There were so many people, no one looked. I stood not far from her, silently observing. She looked up, her face white and dripping with tears, her bangs ragged and her eyes red. She smoothed her black hair. I suddenly realized that she was looking at me, too.

"Are you..." When the words came to her lips, I preempted them with a knowing nod.

I asked her if she was okay. She said no. I didn't know what to do, so I looked at her.

After a long silence she told me she was going home. I hastened to offer to see her off.

After a moment's hesitation she agreed.

(2)

All around were modest settlements, where broken street lamps stood black as iron columns. The lamp in front of her house shone alone.

We stood, wanting to be apart. I looked around, embarrassed, with no strong excuse to stay.

She looked at me casually, and when she couldn't catch my eye she dropped her head and looked at her toes.

I looked straight at her, losing the support of her eyes. I took the opportunity to sneak a look at her, which I was good at, avoiding the embarrassment of looking straight at her and looking at her, and I couldn't take my eyes off her.

I suddenly remembered when I was in high school to write a love letter to her, but no signature, just pour out their true feelings. I do not know whether she replied to the door or lazy attention, so finally nothing.

"I wrote the letter." "I blurted out.

Still looking at her toes, she said quietly, "I know."

It was my turn to look at her in surprise. Perhaps she had known better.

"You just told me." Having said that, it's easy to see that she already knew.

"It was a long time ago, and now you..." I stopped.

"I lost my love, just now." She began to cry, and soon laughed again.

"Oh, don't be too sad." I pretended to be calm and comforting.

She nodded and wiped a tear that was taking shape.

"Your hair hasn't changed, it's still the same." "She said quietly. I rubbed my hair and stammered.

"I'm in." She took out her key and prepared to open the door.

I went forward, the face does not change color heart does not jump to come forward, pretend to calmly say: "lovelorn will not die, but if you do not go to warm up ready to throw the next section of love will die -- urged to die!"

She stared at me with a frown, her eyes burning, as if she wanted to see through me, or she took what I now thought to be a clever wisecrack as the height of derision and irony.

"Forgive me for telling you the truth from the bottom of my heart, I just can't help but hope you know that MY love for you is like my hair every day for ten years." I felt it was not me who was speaking.

I said it out loud -- I wanted to keep it to myself, but I couldn't help it.

Without a word, she turned and walked through the open door, slamming me out.