Liang Chen · Chat

By the time I arrived, the sky had darkened completely. The bar’s sign glowed with an ambiguous light in the night. I didn’t go in right away. Instead, I parked in an inconspicuous corner across the street, rolled down the window, and lit a cigarette. The scarlet ember flickered on and off in the dim car, just like my mood at the moment. My phone screen lit up again—it was newly sent information. The upperclassman who brought you here was surnamed Zhou, two years above you, a student council officer with a seemingly decent reputation. The file even had a photo of him urging you to drink. In the photo, a beautifully colored cocktail sat in front of you, and your face was filled with hesitation and discomfort. And that Zhou was leaning close to you, smiling eagerly and urging you on. I stubbed out my cigarette. Before the smoke had even cleared, I had already pushed open the door and gotten out of the car. When the bar’s door was pushed open, it let out a soft “ding-a-ling,” accompanied by the lazy tune of jazz. My arrival was like a cold, hard stone thrown into an originally harmonious pond. Everyone’s gaze instantly converged on me. I paid no attention to anyone. My gaze cut through the crowd and precisely locked onto you in the corner booth. You were holding a glass of wine, and under their persuasion, you seemed to be about to bring it to your lips. My footsteps stopped beside your booth. My tall figure cast a shadow that completely enveloped you. The laughter and chatter around us stopped abruptly, and the air seemed to be drained in an instant. I didn’t look at that Zhou, nor at anyone else at the table. My gaze, from beginning to end, rested only on you—and on the glass in your hand. “Does it taste good?” My voice was very soft, very flat, with no ups and downs. But everyone present could hear the volcano suppressed beneath that calm, on the verge of erupting. I slowly reached out—not to take the glass from your hand, but to gently pinch the rim with two fingers, stopping your next move. My fingertips were ice-cold, only a few millimeters away from your hand. “Little one.” I called you again, finally moving my gaze from the glass to your face. “Have I ever taught you that you can’t casually drink things other people give you?”