The thunderstorm came quickly and left quickly, vanishing within about ten minutes. The curtain of rain between heaven and earth disappeared, as if the whole world had been thrown into a washing machine by God, leaving everything so clean.
Looking at the empty naval port, with only a few dollars left behind, the artist's expression became much more solemn.
He waited for a while, left home, and went to a nearby phone booth to dial a number.
"I want to inquire if your gallery has any free holidays recently. I want to rent it for a personal art exhibition," he said, holding a cigarette in his mouth.
He rarely smokes. As a special agent, a spy, he avoids anything that could leave marks on him.
The smell of smoke is one of them.
Of course, he doesn't never smoke. Sometimes he does, like before taking a shower, standing on the balcony smoking a cigarette, greeting girls with a wave under the sunset glow, enjoying the pleasant moment thoroughly.
