Lily used to be my neighbour. We lived in a street with houses built through prefabricated frames and made of concrete and steel. We were in a block of twenty identical two storey houses with tiny front court yards. Mr. Chen was the developer of our houses. I remember seeing him strutting around with a black leather waist bag bearing a green crocodile logo, surveying the rice field behind our houses. My village was only three miles away; when we first moved in, I run up to the roof, trying to make out where my village was, and was disappointed when failed to find out the river and the wooden bridge I used to dive into the water. Nevertheless, I was quite content with the newly found concept of the in house flushed toilet, separated bedrooms, living room and kitchen of my new house, and found it extremely satisfactory of slipping down the railing of the stairways.

Our neighbours were mostly well to do farmers from villages surrounding the market town. I was bewildered at first when meeting strange kids in the neighbourhood, but was reassured by the familiar name of villages they were from. Lily was the only exception. I was playing marble in front of my home with my visiting cousin on the day I met Lily. Like all the boys in my age, I spent a big chunk of my pocket money on collecting those colourful glass balls. I stored all my balls in a rectangular metal biscuit tin, which I wrapped a layer of soft clothe lining on its inside surface, so they wouldn’t make those scrapping noises. One of my great pleasures of having them was to polish them under the sunlight, and immerse myself in an atmosphere of perfection with their impeccably cool and smooth touch under my fingertips. Any glass balls with even a smallest scrap, a chink or crack, would be relegated ruthlessly by me to the corner of my bottom drawer.

My cousin was trying a long shot on my ball, both our eyes were fixed on the floor; my cousin kneed behind his ball, chin slightly tilted, trying to figure out a best angel. I squatted beside him, nervously holding my breath. However, before my cousin released his finger, a girl’s sandal treaded on my ball. I immediately jumped up, ready to curse and push the offender away, then I found myself facing a girl in a beige skirt, hair neatly pushed back and fell to one side of her head, revealing a long neck. Her lips were thin and pursed, and appeared to be unnatural red and shining in my eyes. There was a trace of mischievous smile in the corner of her mouth, which deterred me for a second, but didn’t dissipate any of my anger.

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