Just Like Him

In the third year of Jiang Yan’s affair, I met a fresh-faced college boy. He wore a white T-shirt and faded jeans. His brows held a rebellious slant, his thin lips were pressed together, and his fringe fell a little too long over his eyes. He bore more than a passing resemblance to Jiang Yan when he was young. My car had broken down halfway to my destination. He haggled me up to five hundred yuan and promised he could fix it. Halfway through the repair, he took a call. It seemed to be the hospital chasing him for payment.