Summer was truly hot, the asphalt road surface soft and sticky, clinging to the soles of shoes when stepped on.
Mianmian walked quickly toward “Student’s Little Lunch Spot” after school at noon. Having just endured two mentally exhausting math classes, she couldn’t hold on any longer without eating.
This little lunch spot was located on the first floor of a residential building behind the school and had been open for many years. Mianmian had been eating lunch there since seventh grade.
The owner was a man of few words, spending his days flipping woks in the kitchen.
The owner’s wife had a round face with two dimples when she smiled. Her memory was astonishingly sharp—she could remember what each student liked to eat, what they avoided, and how many bowls of rice they could finish. Her voice was always gentle and soft, like a watermelon soaked in well water during summer—refreshingly sweet and cooling.
The owner’s wife was pregnant.
Every time Mianmian came, her gaze couldn’t help but linger on her for a few extra seconds.
It started in winter. The owner’s wife wore a thick down jacket, and Mianmian only vaguely noticed that she seemed a bit fuller, the curve of her cheeks softer.
Later, when spring arrived and she shed her coat, her belly could no longer be hidden.
In the past month or two, that belly had grown like a fully inflated balloon, visibly larger day by day. The owner’s wife had begun unconsciously placing a hand on her lower back when walking, leaning slightly backward, shifting her center of gravity, and her steps had slowed compared to before.
Today, when Mianmian pushed the door open, she found the shop unusually crowded. Seven or eight students were squeezed around a few tables, some already eating, others still waiting. The owner’s wife, with her protruding belly, slowly moved between the tables, carrying two plates of steaming green pepper and shredded pork over rice.
Mianmian’s gaze fell on her belly.
A few weeks ago, it had still been round, like a fully ripe watermelon, jutting forward high and tight, stretching her clothes taut.
But today…
With fewer layers in summer, the owner’s wife wore only a blue floral-print dress, and her belly was completely visible.
It wasn’t the same round, bulging shape as before. Instead, it seemed to sag downward, as if some weight was desperately pulling that round sphere down. The highest point of her abdomen appeared to have shifted lower, transforming from a round watermelon into a large pomelo—narrower at the top, wider at the bottom, with its center of gravity leaning downward.
Why had the shape changed?
Mianmian didn’t understand. She was just naturally sensitive to images and forms, adept at observing even the subtlest differences.
As the owner’s wife passed by her with the plates, her footsteps suddenly stopped. Mianmian noticed her brows furrowed, one hand holding onto a table, the other still carrying the plate, her whole body frozen in place.
“Owner’s wife?” Mianmian called softly.
The owner’s wife snapped back to attention and gave her the usual, dimpled, affectionate smile, though there was a hint of strain in it:
“You’re here, Mianmian.”
She delivered the plates to the nearby table and walked back. After two steps, she stopped again, one hand supporting her waist, the other pressing against her belly, standing with her eyes closed.
Mianmian looked at her profile and noticed a fine layer of sweat on her forehead.
The shop had air conditioning on—it clearly wasn’t hot.
“Owner’s wife, are you feeling unwell?” Mianmian asked with concern.
She opened her eyes and smiled affectionately again: “It’s nothing, dear. Just a bit of backache from standing too long. The baby’s big now, pressing down. Find a seat first. It’s crowded today, so you’ll have to wait a bit.”
As she spoke, she headed back toward the kitchen.
Mianmian watched her walking away.
It really was different from usual.
Her legs were spread wide apart, as if they couldn’t close, her steps slow and heavy, carrying a sense of sluggishness and a dragging, weighted feeling.
Mianmian found a corner seat and sat down, hugging her backpack to her chest.
The shop was a mess. A few boys were discussing international political and military news, two girls were huddled together looking at a phone, and a younger boy was hunched over, eating voraciously as if he wanted to bury his face in his bowl.
From the kitchen came the sound of the boss stir-frying—the clanging of the spatula against the wok—and the aroma of food wafted everywhere.
Amidst the noise and the bustling atmosphere, the boss’s wife continued to work busily—taking money, giving change, wiping tables, serving dishes.
Mianmian had been watching her out of the corner of her eye.
She saw the boss’s wife walk over to a table and bend down to collect the bowls.
Halfway through, she suddenly straightened up, bracing herself against the table with a pained expression.
She stood there for a moment, then slowly straightened her back, carrying the bowls toward the kitchen. Midway, she stopped again, leaning against the wall and letting out a stifled, almost groaning sigh.
“Ah…”
The kitchen door opened, and the boss leaned halfway out. His apron was stained with grease, and his dark face showed little expression.
He glanced at his wife, then hurried over. With one hand, he steadied her arm, while the other—a large hand speckled with oil—rested naturally and familiarly, with the kind of intimacy only shared between spouses, gently on the high, rounded curve of her lower abdomen.
“Why is it so tight?” he asked in a low voice, thick with a heavy local accent, audible only faintly to Mianmian nearby. “Is the pain bad?”
The boss’s wife shook her head, using her husband’s arm for support to stand a little straighter. “It still comes and goes. It’s nothing serious.”
The boss glanced back at the crowded shop, then at the clock on the wall. It was only 11:40—the lunch rush would last at least another hour.
“Go lie down in the back,” he said. “Last night, I heard you tossing and turning and groaning. You didn’t sleep well at all. I can handle things here.”
“How can you manage alone?” the boss’s wife shook her head. “There are still several tables that haven’t ordered yet, and the dishes in the back haven’t been washed.”
“You’re carrying a heavy load. Standing too long will tire you out.” Without another word, the boss tightened his grip on her arm, half-pushing and half-supporting her as he guided her toward the small rest area separated by a cloth curtain at the back. “Listen to me, go lie down for a bit, rest your back. Once I’m done with the lunch rush, I’ll take you to the hospital to get checked.”
Pushed along by him, she took two steps before stopping again. Carrying her heavy belly, she looked up at her husband and smiled. The smile spread across her pale, sweaty face, glowing with an oddly gentle radiance.
“Really, I’m fine. Don’t fuss like an old man,” she said softly, even reaching up to smooth the sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. “It’s just a bit uncomfortable when the pain comes. Once it passes, I’m fine again. Hurry back to stir-fry—the food in the wok will burn, and all these customers are waiting.”
The boss was about to say something more when a loud clang suddenly came from the kitchen, like a lid falling to the floor, followed by the roar of oil igniting in the wok.
“Oh no!” the boss exclaimed under his breath, turning to rush back to the kitchen. He skidded to a stop at the doorway, looking back at his wife with a conflicted expression.
“Go on,” the boss’s wife said with a smile. “I can manage.”
Reluctantly, the boss turned and hurried back to the kitchen.
The boss’s wife leaned against the wall for a moment, then slowly straightened her back and continued walking toward Mianmian.
“Mianmian, are you hungry?” she asked as she reached Mianmian’s table, her voice still gentle and warm. “What would you like to eat today?”
“Minced pork and eggplant over rice, light on the oil.” Mianmian looked at her.
The proprietress smiled at Mianmian. “Alright, wait a moment. It’ll be ready soon.”
She turned and walked slowly toward the kitchen.
Mianmian saw the proprietress’s hand resting on her belly, gently stroking it. The hem of her dress trembled slightly, rhythmically.
It wasn’t the wind—it was her legs, struggling to support her body, trembling uncontrollably.
The restaurant remained noisy. No one noticed the pregnant woman’s brief pause and hidden pain by the cash register. The torrent of life, carrying hunger, laughter, and the clatter of bowls and chopsticks, surged forward relentlessly.
The food arrived a little past twelve.
Mianmian ate slowly, head bowed. Her chopsticks never stopped moving, but her eyes kept darting toward the cash register.
The proprietress sat behind the counter, an account book open before her, a pen clutched in her hand.
Suddenly, her body lurched forward violently. Both hands pressed tightly against her belly. Even from a distance, Mianmian could almost feel that sudden, overwhelming force.
Mianmian watched her stiffen, her face flushing red, motionless as if frozen.
After a long moment, she slowly relaxed, leaning back in her chair, head tilted up, chest heaving.
Mianmian’s heart quietly tightened. It looked painful, but she kept saying she was fine. Was it really okay?
Mianmian couldn’t tell for sure. She only vaguely sensed that the waves of pain were coming closer and closer together.
The restaurant gradually emptied. A few boys finished and left, then two girls. Only Mianmian and a younger boy in the corner, still shoveling rice into his mouth, remained.
The kitchen door opened. The owner came out carrying a bowl of noodles, walked to the cash register, and set it down.
“Eat something first. You won’t have the strength to give birth at the hospital on an empty stomach.”
The proprietress looked up. Her face was frighteningly pale, sweat beading on her forehead, strands of hair plastered to her skin.
She nodded obediently, picked up her chopsticks, and lifted a few noodles. Before they reached her mouth, she suddenly stopped. Her neck arched back, face flushing crimson, a stifled “Mmm… mmm…” escaping her throat.
The owner steadied her. “Again?”
The proprietress couldn’t speak, only nodded. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, mouth open as she gasped for breath.