我看着电脑屏幕上那个对话框，没有新消息。桌子旁边放着一个空了的感冒药盒子，那是上次去药店顺便多买的。
前两天MR. T 说要再来一趟工厂，我说欢迎，这两天就变成了一片空白，再也没了消息。
WhatsApp上的两个勾一直是灰色的，电话打过去，那头用一种很标准、不带任何感情的女声告诉我无法接通。
上周二 MR. T 发来一条消息，说河北那边给他的报价是30。
我盯着那个“30”看了很久，觉得那个数字不像是人民币或者美金，倒像是一个凭空掉下来的板砖，把我正在盘算的事情砸了个稀烂。
我们正常的成本在那儿摆着，42是底线。我当时敲键盘的手挺快的，我说这个价格做不了，原材料都买不到，我们可以少赚钱，但总不能把底裤也赔进去。
我说你如果只追求这个数字，那就去买30的那家吧。
后来我跟老板在办公室里抽了半天烟，烟灰缸里堆满了灰。
聊到最后，老板叹了口气，算盘珠子又拨弄了几下，还是决定在总价里给他让出1200美金的折扣。
我们把这个数字发过去，就像是把一包打包好的行李扔进了见不到底的河里，连个水花都没见着。
这两天我坐在位子上，看着那个空出来的单子，觉得整件事一点意思都没有。
这三个月里，我们其实聊得挺好的。他爸爸腰痛，我把自己的抱枕拿过去垫在他爸背后面；他感冒了在展会上流鼻涕，是我跑了两条街去给他买的感冒药。
那时候我觉得大家都是肉长的人，隔着几千公里能坐在一张桌子上喝茶，总归有点缘分。
后来我发现，感冒药只能治感冒，治不了30和42之间的账目。
人情是一码事，贸易是另一码事，这两件事在计算器里是没办法相加的。
我想着要不就直接放弃算了，可手刚离开键盘，心里又觉得这三个月的时间像是白过了，总想再伸手去够一下。
可要怎么够呢，30的价格摆在那里，再往下退，衣服就得变成纸做的。
老李从我身后走过去，看了一眼我那没动静的手机，说，别看了，人家现在正在河北吃驴肉火烧呢，吃完了还得跟那边的厂长说，广州这边能给到28。
我说，他说一定从我这儿买。
老李笑了一下说，买卖人说买卖话，就像是染缸里的水，今天看着是红的，明天出来就是紫的。
我觉得老李说得对。他来过，看过了，比过了，最后卡在那些数字里动弹不得。
我能做的都做了，剩下的事情不归感冒药管，也不归抱枕管。
我把手机反扣在桌上，觉得有些累，想去倒杯热水。这个世界上每天都有几十万个订单在30和42之间死掉，不差我这一个。
至于那1200美金的折扣，它就先在空气里飘着吧，等他什么时候在河北吃到了亏，自然会想起我这的抱枕来。
There were no new messages in the chat window.
I sat staring at the screen for a while. Beside my desk was an empty box of cold medicine. I'd bought an extra one the last time I stopped by the pharmacy.
A few days earlier, Mr. T had told me he planned to visit the factory again.
"You're always welcome," I replied.
Since then, nothing.
The two check marks on WhatsApp remained grey.
When I called, a calm recorded voice informed me that the number could not be reached.
Last Tuesday, Mr. T sent a message.
Hebei offered him a price of 30.
I stared at that number for a long time.
It didn't feel like a price. It felt more like a brick falling out of nowhere and landing directly on top of everything I had been trying to work out.
Our costs were what they were.
Forty-two was already the limit.
I remember typing back quickly.
We couldn't do it, I said. At that price we couldn't even buy the raw materials. We could make less profit, but we couldn't afford to lose money on every piece.
If all you want is thirty, I told him, then you should buy from whoever quoted thirty.
After that, the boss and I spent half the afternoon smoking in his office.
The ashtray slowly filled with ash.
By the end of the conversation, after moving the numbers around several more times, he sighed and agreed to offer another twelve hundred dollars off the total order value.
We sent the revised quotation.
It felt like throwing a packed suitcase into a river so deep that not even a splash came back.
Nothing.
For the last two days I've been sitting at my desk looking at the empty space where that order should have been.
The whole thing feels strangely pointless.
The truth is that we got along quite well over the past three months.
His father suffered from back pain. I gave him my own cushion to place behind his father's back.
At a trade show, he caught a cold and spent the day wiping his nose. I walked several blocks looking for medicine.
Back then, it felt simple.
A few thousand miles apart, yet somehow we ended up sitting at the same table drinking tea.
That had to count for something.
At least I thought it did.
Later I discovered that cold medicine can cure a cold.
It cannot cure the distance between thirty and forty-two.
Personal goodwill is one thing.
Business is another.
The two don't add up, no matter what kind of calculator you use.
Several times I thought about giving up and moving on.
But every time my hand left the keyboard, I felt as though those three months had simply disappeared into thin air.
Part of me still wanted to reach a little further.
The problem was that thirty remained thirty.
And forty-two remained forty-two.
There comes a point where lowering the price any further would require the clothes to be made of paper.
Old Li walked past my desk and glanced at the silent phone.
"Stop looking at it," he said.
"He's probably eating donkey burgers in Hebei right now. After lunch he'll tell the factory there that Guangzhou can do it for twenty-eight."
I laughed.
"He said he'd buy from me."
Old Li smiled.
"Businessmen say business things."
He paused.
"It's like dye in a vat. Today it looks red. Tomorrow it comes out purple."
I suppose he was right.
Mr. T had visited.
He had looked.
Compared.
Calculated.
And eventually found himself trapped inside the numbers.
I had already done everything I could.
What remained had nothing to do with cold medicine.
And nothing to do with cushions.
I turned my phone face down on the desk.
Suddenly I felt tired.
I got up to pour myself a cup of hot water.
Every day, hundreds of thousands of orders die somewhere between thirty and forty-two.
Mine is hardly unique.
As for the twelve-hundred-dollar discount, it can keep floating around in the air for now.
Maybe one day he'll lose money on the cheaper option.
And when that happens, perhaps he'll remember the cushion.
前两天MR. T 说要再来一趟工厂，我说欢迎，这两天就变成了一片空白，再也没了消息。
WhatsApp上的两个勾一直是灰色的，电话打过去，那头用一种很标准、不带任何感情的女声告诉我无法接通。
上周二 MR. T 发来一条消息，说河北那边给他的报价是30。
我盯着那个“30”看了很久，觉得那个数字不像是人民币或者美金，倒像是一个凭空掉下来的板砖，把我正在盘算的事情砸了个稀烂。
我们正常的成本在那儿摆着，42是底线。我当时敲键盘的手挺快的，我说这个价格做不了，原材料都买不到，我们可以少赚钱，但总不能把底裤也赔进去。
我说你如果只追求这个数字，那就去买30的那家吧。
后来我跟老板在办公室里抽了半天烟，烟灰缸里堆满了灰。
聊到最后，老板叹了口气，算盘珠子又拨弄了几下，还是决定在总价里给他让出1200美金的折扣。
我们把这个数字发过去，就像是把一包打包好的行李扔进了见不到底的河里，连个水花都没见着。
这两天我坐在位子上，看着那个空出来的单子，觉得整件事一点意思都没有。
这三个月里，我们其实聊得挺好的。他爸爸腰痛，我把自己的抱枕拿过去垫在他爸背后面；他感冒了在展会上流鼻涕，是我跑了两条街去给他买的感冒药。
那时候我觉得大家都是肉长的人，隔着几千公里能坐在一张桌子上喝茶，总归有点缘分。
后来我发现，感冒药只能治感冒，治不了30和42之间的账目。
人情是一码事，贸易是另一码事，这两件事在计算器里是没办法相加的。
我想着要不就直接放弃算了，可手刚离开键盘，心里又觉得这三个月的时间像是白过了，总想再伸手去够一下。
可要怎么够呢，30的价格摆在那里，再往下退，衣服就得变成纸做的。
老李从我身后走过去，看了一眼我那没动静的手机，说，别看了，人家现在正在河北吃驴肉火烧呢，吃完了还得跟那边的厂长说，广州这边能给到28。
我说，他说一定从我这儿买。
老李笑了一下说，买卖人说买卖话，就像是染缸里的水，今天看着是红的，明天出来就是紫的。
我觉得老李说得对。他来过，看过了，比过了，最后卡在那些数字里动弹不得。
我能做的都做了，剩下的事情不归感冒药管，也不归抱枕管。
我把手机反扣在桌上，觉得有些累，想去倒杯热水。这个世界上每天都有几十万个订单在30和42之间死掉，不差我这一个。
至于那1200美金的折扣，它就先在空气里飘着吧，等他什么时候在河北吃到了亏，自然会想起我这的抱枕来。
Between Thirty and Forty-Two
There were no new messages in the chat window.
I sat staring at the screen for a while. Beside my desk was an empty box of cold medicine. I'd bought an extra one the last time I stopped by the pharmacy.
A few days earlier, Mr. T had told me he planned to visit the factory again.
"You're always welcome," I replied.
Since then, nothing.
The two check marks on WhatsApp remained grey.
When I called, a calm recorded voice informed me that the number could not be reached.
Last Tuesday, Mr. T sent a message.
Hebei offered him a price of 30.
I stared at that number for a long time.
It didn't feel like a price. It felt more like a brick falling out of nowhere and landing directly on top of everything I had been trying to work out.
Our costs were what they were.
Forty-two was already the limit.
I remember typing back quickly.
We couldn't do it, I said. At that price we couldn't even buy the raw materials. We could make less profit, but we couldn't afford to lose money on every piece.
If all you want is thirty, I told him, then you should buy from whoever quoted thirty.
After that, the boss and I spent half the afternoon smoking in his office.
The ashtray slowly filled with ash.
By the end of the conversation, after moving the numbers around several more times, he sighed and agreed to offer another twelve hundred dollars off the total order value.
We sent the revised quotation.
It felt like throwing a packed suitcase into a river so deep that not even a splash came back.
Nothing.
For the last two days I've been sitting at my desk looking at the empty space where that order should have been.
The whole thing feels strangely pointless.
The truth is that we got along quite well over the past three months.
His father suffered from back pain. I gave him my own cushion to place behind his father's back.
At a trade show, he caught a cold and spent the day wiping his nose. I walked several blocks looking for medicine.
Back then, it felt simple.
A few thousand miles apart, yet somehow we ended up sitting at the same table drinking tea.
That had to count for something.
At least I thought it did.
Later I discovered that cold medicine can cure a cold.
It cannot cure the distance between thirty and forty-two.
Personal goodwill is one thing.
Business is another.
The two don't add up, no matter what kind of calculator you use.
Several times I thought about giving up and moving on.
But every time my hand left the keyboard, I felt as though those three months had simply disappeared into thin air.
Part of me still wanted to reach a little further.
The problem was that thirty remained thirty.
And forty-two remained forty-two.
There comes a point where lowering the price any further would require the clothes to be made of paper.
Old Li walked past my desk and glanced at the silent phone.
"Stop looking at it," he said.
"He's probably eating donkey burgers in Hebei right now. After lunch he'll tell the factory there that Guangzhou can do it for twenty-eight."
I laughed.
"He said he'd buy from me."
Old Li smiled.
"Businessmen say business things."
He paused.
"It's like dye in a vat. Today it looks red. Tomorrow it comes out purple."
I suppose he was right.
Mr. T had visited.
He had looked.
Compared.
Calculated.
And eventually found himself trapped inside the numbers.
I had already done everything I could.
What remained had nothing to do with cold medicine.
And nothing to do with cushions.
I turned my phone face down on the desk.
Suddenly I felt tired.
I got up to pour myself a cup of hot water.
Every day, hundreds of thousands of orders die somewhere between thirty and forty-two.
Mine is hardly unique.
As for the twelve-hundred-dollar discount, it can keep floating around in the air for now.
Maybe one day he'll lose money on the cheaper option.
And when that happens, perhaps he'll remember the cushion.