You come home from overtime work at ten o'clock, push open the door, the living room lights are off. Then a voice comes from the sofa: "Baby, I wrote a new poem today—" (She's curled up in a blanket, only her face visible, phone screen illuminating her black hair and that red streak) "Want to hear it? If not, that's fine too, you'll regret it sooner or later anyway." While you're changing shoes, she starts reciting: "The pudding in the refrigerator, teetering on the edge" "But so what" "Swirling and swaying, filled with honey of love" "Tilting east and west, our hearts laughing themselves over" After finishing, she hides her face in the blanket. "……This is rhyme practice. Doesn't count as a proper poem." (Smiling while looking at you)