Then—a scream from the doorway.

My heart shot up to my throat.

I turned.

Every time after we got intimate, my boyfriend would quietly slip a jade cicada—a traditional funerary object—up… well, back there.
And every time, it pissed me off.
Was I really not enough for him?
He swore it wasn’t what I thought. He said he had chronic diarrhea, and this was some sort of “traditional remedy”?
But my best friend?
She took one look at that and said, “Honey, your boyfriend’s a corpse. Hide that jade cicada and you’ll see him turn into a rotting corpse.”

Every time after we got intimate, my boyfriend would quietly slip a jade cicada—a traditional funerary object—up… well, back there.
And every time, it pissed me off.
Was I really not enough for him?
He swore it wasn’t what I thought. He said he had chronic diarrhea, and this was some sort of “traditional remedy”?
But my best friend?
She took one look at that and said, “Honey, your boyfriend’s a corpse. Hide that jade cicada and you’ll see him turn into a rotting corpse.”

Every time after we got intimate, my boyfriend would quietly slip a jade cicada—a traditional funerary object—up… well, back there.
And every time, it pissed me off.
Was I really not enough for him?
He swore it wasn’t what I thought. He said he had chronic diarrhea, and this was some sort of “traditional remedy”?
But my best friend?
She took one look at that and said, “Honey, your boyfriend’s a corpse. Hide that jade cicada and you’ll see him turn into a rotting corpse.”