THE SADDEST GIRL SINCE THE SONG DYNASTY

SFTC - PART I

Lady Zhao had an adventure of her own that night. After finally drifting off to sleep, or otherwise, provisional-death (Lady Zhao rarely dreamt and barely moved), she was first woken by a shriek from Bingbing, a shrill cry of terror in the darkness. Then, after receiving a look of hurt that seemed to come from deep inside Bingbing's soul for the betrayal of turning off the light, she managed to attain the splendid state of sleep for a second time.

It didn't last long. Ander suddenly and inexplicably slammed a door. Lady Zhao jumped up to attack him for his lack of consideration, but instead found him on his hands and knees on a dirty mat at the base of a wardrobe, thrashing languidly, so instead guided him back to his mattress, if only with a little force.

Giving up on getting any rest, Lady Zhao went on a hunt for entertainment. She tried her phone to start with, messaging friends and her father, making provocations and hoping for responses – an argument was at least a social diversion from insomnia. And she didn't really want to think about the weekend she was enduring. The day had been awful and hardly a success in spiritual terms, and the next day was probably going to more unsuccessful since, if the queues were anything like the same, she would never get to the second temple, the one Lady Zhao was most interested in. "Too many people in Shanghai need salvation," she messaged Spring. Perhaps she should just write the trip off, she considered, just try and enjoy the scenery of temple strewn hills and the company, however impossible that felt.

With no replies to her remote harassments, Lady Zhao then watched fifteen minutes of TV in the living room before settling on the idea that had been at the back of her mind all night – the pursuit of fleeting romance.

A key attribute in the determination of which spare-room to select among the many hawkers they had been approached by was the impression on the brain's aesthetic-lobe, specifically Lady Zhao's male-aesthetic-cortex, the vendor had. If they were going to rent a room from someone, and if all the rooms were roughly the same price, that someone might as well be deadly handsome. This particular vendor was a twenty-year-old (some eight years her junior) who circled the souvenir stands on his bike offering double and triple rooms in his parents' second apartment for what had become clear was the going rate. She scored his face nine-out-of-ten. Some flirting later, using her hapless sidekicks as comedic fodder – "A thin mattress on the ground is two inches more than my friend Ander deserves" – a ten percent discount on the initial quote sealed the deal.