Yan Xixi, of course, was oblivious to his seething anger and consuming jealousy. When he didn't reply for a while, she asked again, "What are you doing?"
His phone lay on the carpet, and Wan Donglin made no move to pick it up.
"Hey, why aren't you speaking?"
"Hey, Foot Fiddler, are you picking your feet again?"
The messaging app notifications kept coming. He picked up his phone, and the sight of the nickname she'd sent—"Foot Fiddler"—made him both exasperated and amused.
"Hey, what's your problem? I hate it when people suddenly ignore me."
"Foot Fiddler, what on earth is wrong with you? If you don't answer, I'm going to block you."
"I'm serious, I'm going to block you and never talk to you again..."
She was very irritable that night, constantly wanting to pick a fight with someone. But what's more aggravating in life than trying to pick a fight with someone who simply won't engage? That damned Foot Fiddler.
"Hey, if you don't talk, I'm not sending you those gloves."
