The Slag Gong wants to Kill me

Zhu Ma's recent schedule is to participate in the promotion of the film, then to participate in interviews, and several entertainment programs. I calculated his interview time and the time spent on the road, and arranged a few reporters to block people.

Although this is my temporary idea.

I also tried to make the filmmaker and Zhuma meet again, but the difficulty of this matter is obviously a bit high. After all, the filmmaker's itinerary is currently unavailable, so I had to stop this plan first.

When my husband returned that day, I saw a tired expression on his face, and there were very obvious signs of being scratched, but it was not hit by a bamboo horse.

Judging by the size of the palm, it is probably not a bamboo horse. I estimate that the person who hit my husband was probably more than one meter eighty-five, with some options excluded, presumably in the film director and his elder brother A or someone I didn't know.

But I think the probability is A.

I went to get a hot towel and put it on his face. I even squeezed a few tears, pretending to be concerned, and asked him, "Does it hurt?"

My husband shook his head and he replied, "It's all right."

He didn't seem to want to explain why. I didn't ask, there are only so many explanations anyway.

He then sat down to eat. I put the bowl of medicine in the second position on his left hand side. I have observed that he particularly likes to pinch the dish, perhaps because it is easy. And this position is also convenient for me to give him those dishes to show my concern.

My husband still had an unwavering look on his face at that time, perhaps because his anger was paralyzed by his anger, and he almost ate up all the dishes.

By convention, it's my turn to wash the dishes today.

When I was washing the dishes, I heard my husband's footsteps coming from the door, he hugged me from behind, whispered in my ear, and asked, "Do you want to do tonight? "

Have your dreams. I thought for a second that my clean habit was not tolerable one night.

"No," I said, "I have to write an article at night."

"Okay." He looked a little lost.

After I heard him pick up a phone call, he seemed to be gone. I put the bowl down and went to the living room to find my locator. As I expected, he should not go to his bamboo horse.

It seems that the situation I had predicted before is real.