爸爸永远在灶间。一团朦朦胧胧的水汽裹挟着他,围着粗蓝布围裙的肚子鼓起来,好像怀了三个月的孕。他挥舞着锅铲,叮当作响。不是做饭,就是洗碗,一个人待上很久很久,和灶间浑然一体。荷叶边白瓷灯罩悬得低低的,昏黄灯光罩着他,他在光圈里好像中了魔。三点半他从厂里下班,然后步行去菜场,之后就一直这样把自己埋在灶间。菜端上桌,他给自己斟一小杯汤沟酒,瓶子是绿色的,酒是透明的。他打 Dad always in the kitchen. A group of hazy water vapor coerced him around the belly of the rough blue apron bulge, as if pregnant with three months pregnant. He waving a shovel, jingling. Not cooking, is washing dishes, a long time to stay alone, and the kitchen seamless. Ruffian white porcelain lampshade hanging low, dim light over him, he seems to be in the aperture of the magic. He went to get off work from the factory at half-past three and walked to the farms, where he kept burying himself in the kitchen. Dish end on the table, he poured himself a small cup of Tang ditch wine, the bottle is green, the wine is transparent. He hit