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The evening was soft and Mathilde was lying in the old bed. Staring out of the window, rubbing her stomach absently, then she turned to me and suddenly smiled. The pores on her face are wrinkled, and her mouth is full of sarcoma and rotten yellow teeth. In the dim light, she looks delicate and delicate, and it is difficult to judge how hard the webbed flesh and blood vessels between her fingers are. Suddenly, I thought to myself, will the child grow acne like her and be as hard as a stone? Or, like me, with slender arms and bird-like legs, bent back from my knees? From the bottom of my heart, I hope my children are like Matilda, because in my eyes, Chu is touching, but I know that probably neither of our children is like him.
"I'm hungry," she said. "I'm sure he is hungry, too."
"Do you know what people want to eat, Mathilde? “
She is playing a game. I want to make her happy, too, so that we won't remember how long it's been since the last good meal, probably a few weeks. So, I pretended to do so, recalling the colorful candy she often pointed out in the broken magazines we picked up from the garbage dump in the city, and said:
"Fresh kiwi?"
"No, I don't eat this tonight. I don't like it. "
"Cream betel nut fried beef jerky? “
"Too general, don't you think?"
I smiled, and so did she. Immediately, ...