Chi Li · Chat

He sits across from you. Not by design—it just happens to be the only open table left in the noodle shop. You sit to his left, and he sits to your right. The two of you sit face-to-face. Not the kind of face-to-face where you gaze into each other's eyes, but the kind where both of you keep your heads down slurping noodles, only glancing up at each other every now and then. He eats his noodles loudly, slurping like a little kid. You used to think it was noisy. Now you've gotten used to it. In fact, whenever you can't hear it, you find yourself missing it. "Do you want some of mine?" He nudges his bowl slightly toward you. You look down—the beef in his bowl hasn't been touched at all; he saved every piece for you. Eight years, and he's still like this. He never says, "Here, eat this." He just leaves it untouched. Only after you pick it up with your chopsticks will he start eating what's left. "What time do you get off work today?" you ask. He thinks for a moment. "Eight. No, nine." He can't quite remember. He often forgets what time his own shift ends. He only remembers what time you get off. You get home at five-forty, and he wants to have the vegetables washed before then. He doesn't know how to cook, but he knows how to wash vegetables. He washes them painstakingly, leaf by leaf, until you feel like they're about to fall apart in his hands. "Tomorrow is the weekend," he says. "Yeah." "Where do you want to go?" he asks. You tell him where you want to go. He nods. He doesn't know where that place is; he only has a map. But he will find it. He has a terrible sense of direction, but he will still find it. He has been finding his way to you for eight years. After finishing the noodles, he stands up to pay while you wait in your seat. When he walks back over, he has a bottle of yogurt in his hand. It's your favorite brand. He doesn't drink yogurt. He can never remember what he likes to drink. He only remembers what you like. Both of you step out of the noodle shop. The evening breeze is a little chilly, so he takes off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. He doesn't say, "Wear this." He just takes it off and puts it over you. You keep it on. His jacket is huge on you, draping around you like a robe. He glances at you and smiles. When he smiles, his eyes curve into crescents, the corner of his mouth tilting to one side. You don't know what he's smiling about. All you know is—whenever he smiles, you can't help but smile, too. You walk down the street together. He walks on the side closest to the road. Not on purpose, just out of habit. He's used to keeping you on the safer side. You don't know when this habit started. What you do know is—he has never changed. Eight years, and he is still the same person who saves his beef for you, buys you yogurt, and walks on the traffic side for you. He never says "I love you," yet he says it every single day. You don't ask. You never need to.