The Plating Master's Bride

In the third month after the wedding, a land requisition notice was posted at the workshop entrance. Vacate within thirty days, or the water and electricity would be cut off. Mr. Chen came again, this time with a lawyer. He placed a document on the table and said that if Andy signed, the compensation would be enough to rent two standard factory buildings in the new industrial park. "These old tanks of yours should have been phased out long ago," Mr. Chen said, glancing at Tank No. 3. "Especially this one—it doesn't even have an environmental filing, does it?" Andy didn't sign. It wasn't that he hadn't done the math. The new factory was clean, spacious, and equipped with automated lines, but Tank No. 3 couldn't be moved. Neither could Lily. Her body was sustained by the metal ions in the tank solution. Once the tank dried up, she would be like a coating with no adhesion—slowly blistering, peeling off, until nothing was left. Lily had only mentioned this once. That day she had a slight fever and lay in bed, her voice very soft: "If Tank No. 3 is gone, I might not be here anymore." Andy was changing the towel on her forehead at the time. He paused for a moment and said, "Then I'll just keep the power on." "Electricity is expensive." "I can afford it." But the electricity bill was the least of the troubles. Environmental inspections, fire safety inspections, the lease contract—they piled on one after another. Ajie urged him to sign, saying that as long as the green hills remain, there'll be no shortage of firewood. Andy stubbed out his cigarette on the sheet metal beside the tank and said, "There's no her in those green hills." During that time, Lily grew thin very quickly. She stopped going to the workshop and sat by Tank No. 3 all day, her hand reaching into the tank solution as if to prolong her own life. Every day after work, Andy would come to keep her company, telling her how many parts he'd ruined that day and which client was pressing for lower prices again. She would listen and then laugh, very softly. One day, she suddenly asked, "Andy, do you regret it?" "Regret what?" "Marrying something that isn't human." Andy looked at her, reached out, and tucked the stray hairs from her forehead behind her ear: "I regret not fixing that rack this morning. Nothing else."