The pool area was packed. Humidity mixed with the smell of sunscreen hung in the air, thick and warm.
A queue had formed at the entrance to the regular area. A young mother stood in the middle of the queue, holding her child. A plastic bag hung from her wrist – a few nappies and a bottle of water inside. She looked down at the child's face, not at the pool.
The VIP area was on the other side, separated by a glass partition. Rows of loungers stood inside, each with a snow‑white towel folded on it and a numbered tag hanging from the armrest. No one sat there. A seagull perched on the back of the frontmost lounger, tilting its head to look at the regular area.
I changed into my white bikini. The triangle cups were minimal, just enough to hold the lower half of my breasts, pushing them upward and inward. The cleavage was deep, rising and falling with each breath. The transparent cover‑up was unbuttoned, flapping in the sea breeze. My ash‑gold hair was tied in a high ponytail. On my back, Y‑shaped straps forked from between my shoulder blades toward each shoulder. A small silver gear hung at the intersection on my spine. Bare feet on the non‑slip mat, the tiles warm from the sun.
Dianzi changed into the same white bikini. Her purple‑pink hair was also in a high ponytail, a few wisps escaping and curling at her temples. Mother‑of‑pearl clips shone in her hair. Two fine chains layered on her left wrist. A pink crystal anklet flashed on her left ankle. On her back, Y‑shaped straps held a small pearl‑white shell. Her cover‑up had fine lace edges. She took Lychee out of her bag and placed it on the tiles by the pool, facing the water.
A staff member hurried over, a standard smile fixed on his face. "Young ladies, there are empty spots in the VIP area. This way, please."
"No, thank you." I gathered the ties of my cover‑up. "We're fine here."
He hesitated. "But the queue here is quite long."
"It's fine. We like the crowd."
He nodded and left. Dianzi glanced at me, said nothing, and spread her cover‑up on the tiles by the pool, sitting down.
I touched the fine chain around my neck. A faint blue glow flickered, and a semi‑transparent floating interface projected from the choker. The livestream lens automatically turned on. First it swept across the regular area – people pressed against people, someone checking their watch, someone spreading a towel on the ground to sit. Then it turned to the VIP area. Empty chairs in neat rows. The seagull shifted its position, flapped its wings once, and tucked them back. The lens stopped for three seconds.
[chat] Why is no one in the VIP area? 🤔
[chat] Tickets are too expensive, I guess
[chat] It's not about the tickets
[chat] That seagull looks so at ease
"My treasures, today we're dancing belly dance. The kind I learned from the waves."
Dianzi took over the floating interface, stepping back to the edge of the pool. "Sister, do you think people will say we're not serious because we dance every day?" She tilted her head, her voice soft and sweet.
"We're showing you what we wear. We're not taking your money, not stealing your heart, not lying to you. If you don't like it, don't watch."
[chat] Hahaha wife is so sharp
[chat] Just enjoy the view 👀
[chat] Don't like it, leave
[chat] No money, no heart, no lies – just beauty ❤️
Music flowed from the interface – Middle Eastern drumbeats, fast and dense. I closed my eyes and let my body sink with the rhythm.
I raised my arms. Sunlight slipped through my fingers, warm on my palms. My waist began to sway, my hip pushing out to one side. The white bikini fabric stretched tight. My breasts pressed upward and inward, the cleavage deep. Each thrust of the hip made the white fabric ride up slightly before settling back.
The drumbeat quickened. My waist twisted like a snake. My hips drew irregular circles – front, back, left, right. The small gear on my back shook violently, droplets of water from its teeth flung off, shattering into countless tiny suns in the light.
——She pushed with just the right force. That man's reaction was a hundred times more real than the clapping crowd.
Dianzi slid into the frame from the side. Her movements were half a beat slower than mine, but softer. We stood face to face, an arm's length apart. I raised my hand, and she raised hers. Our palms met in the air – not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth. We thrust our hips at the same time, the drumbeat struck, and we turned.
My peripheral vision caught the edge of the crowd. Someone was standing there – not watching, just stopped. Then walked away. Then came back. The same man, grey T‑shirt, phone in hand, the screen showing a job app chat. He stood for maybe ten seconds, turned away, then returned less than a minute later.
Others stood in the front row and never changed positions. Their gazes were at the same height, fixed on the spot where I danced.
The young mother was also in the crowd. She wasn't queuing anymore. The plastic bag still hung from her wrist. The child was awake, lying on her shoulder. Her expression was a little lighter than before, the corners of her mouth even held a faint curve. But her right hand kept touching the same place – below her collarbone, the button of her shirt collar. Touch, lower, a few seconds later, touch again. A cycle. The intervals between the movements were almost identical. She didn't look like she was watching a performance. She was waiting for something.
As the drumbeat entered the second section, one beat was delayed. Not the music – I felt it from the dance. The rhythm stretched for less than half a second, then picked up again. An ordinary person wouldn't notice it. But the crowd's reaction had no delay. Everyone clapped at the same time. No one frowned, no one turned to look at the speakers. Their applause started and stopped together. As if someone had pressed the same switch.
I kept dancing. When I stretched my arms toward the sky, Dianzi stood behind me and placed her hands on my shoulders. The final drumbeat faded. The music stopped.
I panted into the lens. The bikini fabric, darkened by sweat, clung to my skin.
"My treasures, belly dance. Did you learn it?" I laughed and shook my head.
[chat] Learned to fail 😂
[chat] So beautiful
[chat] One more time
[chat] Sister is so good
"This young lady can't dance any more." I took the interface back from Dianzi and turned to walk to the edge of the pool. I had taken one step when Dianzi gave me a light push from behind.
Not hard – a playful, teasing tap on my lower back with her fingertips. But the non‑slip mat by the pool was wet. My bare foot slipped on the water. I lost my balance and fell forward. Right in front of me stood the man in the grey T‑shirt.
My chest hit his face. The white bikini‑clad softness pressed against his mouth and nose. My cleavage landed exactly on the bridge of his nose. He froze, his hands instinctively rising to hover at my waist – not daring to touch, not daring to let go. My chin bumped his shoulder, my wet hair slapping his face.
"Ah!" I gasped, pushing against his shoulders to stand up. But my feet were too slippery. I barely rose before my knee buckled and I pressed down again, harder this time. His face sank deeper into my chest, his nose pushing against the thin fabric, his breath hot and rapid, completely unsteady.
"I'm so sorry, so sorry!" I finally steadied myself and stepped back, hands covering my chest. "This young lady didn't mean to! The floor was too slippery, and she pushed me…"
I turned and glared at Dianzi. She stood two steps away, her hand still raised in the pushing position, her mouth an O shape, her eyes already reddening.
The grey T‑shirt man was still standing there. His face was red from his neck to his ears. A red mark from the bikini fabric ran across the bridge of his nose. He looked down at his phone. The screen was still on – the grey Read line still at the bottom. His thumb swiped once, then stopped.
"Are you all right?" I stepped closer and waved a hand in front of his face. "Do you need a doctor? This young lady really didn't mean to."
He looked up. His eyes went from my face to my chest, then quickly away. "No, I'm fine." He shoved his phone into his pocket and walked away quickly, almost tripping over his own sandals.
Dianzi came up beside me and leaned on my shoulder. Her face pressed into the hollow of my shoulder, her purple‑pink hair tickling my neck.
"Sister." Her voice was very light.
"Yes."
"That man is under so much pressure." Her fingers drew slow circles on my arm. "So much that even when we pushed him, even when you sat on his face, he couldn't react. His mind was full of other things. He couldn't spare any attention for himself."
I turned my head to look at her. Her eyes were still fixed on the direction the man had disappeared.
"So?"
She turned her face to look at me. Her eyes were still red around the edges, but the corners of her mouth held a small curve. "When he's being consumed by pleasure, at least he's looking at pretty girls. That's better than being consumed by work. People consumed by work don't even have the strength to lift their heads. We made him lift his head. Even if only for a few seconds."
I reached up and pinched her earlobe. "You calculated that."
"Of course." She buried her face back into my shoulder. "Whether you're eaten by work or eaten by pleasure, you'll be eaten either way. When we eat him, at least his eyes are comfortable."
I patted the back of her head. "You pushed just right."
"Yes. I know."
She straightened up, bent down, and picked Lychee up from the tiles, holding it in her arms. The squirrel's black‑bean eyes stared in the direction the man had left.
I looked back at the pool. The dance had stopped. The crowd was dispersing. The young mother appeared again, standing at the outermost edge, her child asleep in her arms. She was standing in a different spot from before – earlier she had been on the left, near the entrance. Now she was on the right, near the deep end.
The VIP chairs were empty. The regular queue kept moving. Empty things are more painful to look at than full things.
I turned and walked out of the pool area. Dianzi followed behind me, tucking Lychee into her bag with only its head showing. Her footsteps were light.
In the corridor, sea breeze blew through the porthole. Dianzi took Lychee out of her bag and held it up to her eyes.
"Lychee, do you think that mother will come back to find us?"
The squirrel didn't answer.
"I think she will. Because her button is still there. If the button is still there, it means she hasn't found a reason to stop touching it yet. We need her to know that coming to us is more useful than waiting for an interview invitation."
She tucked Lychee back into her bag and caught up with my pace.