我伏在桌子上写《父亲》。父亲就坐在我的对面，双腿搁在一把椅子上。他抽着烟，烟火忽明忽暗，烟雾弥漫在我和他之间，我无法看清父亲的神态。父亲发现我在看他，丢了烟蒂，问：“你老看着我干啥？”“没什么，因为我在写东西。”“写东西？写东西你看我干什么？”他脸上的疑? I volunteered to write “Father” on the table. The father sat opposite me, resting his legs on a chair. He smoked a cigarette. The smoke ignited and the smoke lingered between me and him. I couldn’t see my father’s demeanor. My father found out that I was watching him and lost cigarette butts and asked, “You’ve been watching me dry up?” “Nothing, because I’m writing.” “Write something? Write what do you think I do?” The doubt on his face ?