In Tang Li's mind, an image inevitably surfaced—
A sixty-year-old Song Baiyan is a dashing old man. He might need reading glasses to look at the newspaper, but he's still agile. Yet, she's already using a cane due to arthritis. When the two of them go for a walk, even if she grips the cane and tries to walk briskly, she can't keep up with Song Baiyan's pace.
That obviously won't do.
Charming, dashing old men often attract covetous eyes.
By then, Song Baiyan might not have a senior crisis, but she'll have a midlife crisis first.
Noticing a blanket in the storage pouch behind the driver's seat, Tang Li leaned over to take it out, spread it over her legs: "It is a bit cold now."
Song Baiyan withdrew his hand from under the blanket, watching her bend over to wrap her legs, afraid of exposing any skin, his eyes filled with amusement, adopting a tone of gentle reproach: "Every moment is different."
Tang Li didn't retort.
