Time goes back at least 14 years, or even longer. That afternoon, in my mother's cramped and dark staff dormitory, a miniature 6-inch black-and-white TV set was playing "Fast Food Truck". An immature boy sits between his two older sisters who are ten years older, staring at the screen with relish, and laughs foolishly from time to time. The small food truck is like Doraemon's pocket. It has all the internal organs and dazzles him, who has never seen the world.
Since then, I have a soft spot for fast food trucks.
In the days that followed, I never watched "Fast Food Truck" in its entirety again, and my memories of my two sisters stopped abruptly in the afternoon full of laughter and laughter.
Later, whether it was the ice cream truck in the ancient town of Tongli, the beverage truck under the Tower Bridge in London, or the burger truck by Bondi Beach, I would stop and buy something without hesitation. Taking what I wanted from the fast food truck, the heavy weight immediately satisfied the strong curiosity of childhood, and filled the emptiness that I had been waiting for for years but never got.
The fragment of "Fast Food Truck" flashed back in my mind, but as the years went by, the picture in the film became more and more blurred. Only when the boy smirked, the two sisters touched his head, pinching his face, the situation became clearer, like an old album that had been covered in dust was wiped again by clear water, showing perfectly and brightly before his eyes.
Every time I encounter a fast food truck, it is a memory of that innocent age.
In the days to come, fast food trucks will definitely meet again, but what about those lovely people?
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