Part1送你出国的那天下起了雨。我们都过了对着漫天落雨吟诗解愁的年纪,少了对无根水的离奇幻想,多了对二氧化硫的担忧嫌弃。你拿出手机开始检查航班停飞的消息,我则对着天空的阴霾算计明天上学一定又很难走。本来已经做好了堵车的准备,谁知交通情况却出人意料地好,到机场时离登机时间还剩一个小时。在行人稀落的大厅站了一会儿,你提议:“干脆去吃点东西吧。”两双筷子一个碗,我们隔着薄薄的雾气吸溜着面汤,始终无话。 Part1 sent you to go abroad on the day it rained. We all passed the age of resolving sorrow over the fallen rain and less of the fanciful imagination of having no root and water, and we were more worried about sulfur dioxide. You come up with the phone began to check the news of the flight grounded, I was facing the haze of the sky tomorrow school must go. Had already done a good job of traffic jams, who knows the traffic situation is unexpectedly good, to the airport from the boarding time left an hour. Standing for a moment in the thin pedestrian lobby, you suggested: “Just go eat something.” Two pairs of chopsticks a bowl, we smoked the soup across the thin mist, always no words.