Cries in the Smoke

Dim yellow lights, greasy tables and chairs, the crowded restaurant is filled with a choking smoky smell.

I huddle in the corner, the food in front of me long gone cold. The man at the next table, a middle-aged man with a protruding belly, is puffing away, the ashtray piled high with cigarette butts, like miniature graves.

I cover my nose and cough softly a few times. The man glances at me, his eyes carrying a hint of disdain, as if to say: "Don't like the smoke? Get out!"

I endure the discomfort, summoning my courage to say to him: "Sir, this is a public place, please do not smoke."

The man seems to have heard some joke, and grins, revealing his yellow teeth: "Public place? So what about a public place? Does it bother you eating? If you can't stand smoke, don't eat out!"

The people around, some bowed their heads and ate, some whispered, but no one stood up to speak. Their silence, like cold stones, weighs on my heart.

I feel a sense of suffocation, as if swallowed by the thick smoke and the indifferent crowd. I remember what Mr. Lu Xun wrote in the preface to "Call to Arms": "Imagine an iron house without windows, absolutely indestructible, with many people sound asleep inside who will soon die of suffocation. But you know since they will die in their sleep, they will not feel the pain of death. Now if you cry aloud to wake a few of the lighter sleepers, making those unfortunate few suffer the agony of irrevocable death, do you think you are doing them a good turn?"

Am I the one "crying aloud"? And is this restaurant the "iron house"?

The man's mocking laughter continues, and the eyes of those around me pierce me like knives. I suddenly feel a sense of powerlessness, a deep sorrow.

I silently get up and leave the restaurant. The air outside, though cold, is much fresher than inside.

I look up at the sky, gray and hazy, much like my mood at this moment.

What's wrong with this world?