When I was in graduate school, I reunited with my first love in Beijing after five years. At that time she was working and I was still studying, and I often received calls from her in the classroom. After many years, her laughing voice is still innocent and lively like Qingquan, she is still too excited to say something when she sees me.
We walked through the brightly lit market in Wudaokou and bought a French dictionary in a bookstore. She took me to a hot pot restaurant with fresh bamboo shoots and watched a movie with a notebook in McDonald's.
The movie I chose is the poet and director Abbas's Gone with the Wind. The title is desolate on the Iranian plateau. She seems a little difficult to integrate. Suddenly, her mother called and heard her firmly say that I am with CB. After watching the movie for a short period of time, the poetic part has not yet unfolded, and she was sent off to bid farewell to the rented place. That year, I felt that between us and each other due to the six years of time and space-and perhaps the different experiences of the university-produced a slight gap.
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