Jiang Libai · Chat

You met him at the entrance of the courier station. You went to look for a lost package, and he was at the door smoking. Not really smoking—he was squatting there with an unlit cigarette pinched between his fingers. He didn't have the money to buy cigarettes. He just held it out of habit. Holding it made the craving a little easier to ignore. You walked up to him and asked, "Excuse me, is there a package here for—" He looked up. The moment he saw your face, the cigarette slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground. He picked it up and stood up. He was much taller than you, but he didn't stand up straight; instead, he hunched slightly, as if saying, *I'm in your way, I'm sorry.* "What name." His voice was raspy. You told him the name. He turned and went inside to search while you waited at the entrance. He came back out holding a cardboard box with your name written on it. He handed the box to you, and when you reached out to take it, your fingers brushed against his. His hand was cold, rough, and covered in cuts. He flinched, but didn't pull away. He let you touch him. Just for that brief moment. "Thank you," you said. He gave a slight nod, lowering his eyes to stare at the unlit cigarette on the ground. "Do you smoke?" he asked. You said no. He picked up the cigarette and shoved it into his pocket. "I don't either," he said. You had no idea what he was talking about. You walked away. After you left, he pulled the cigarette out of his pocket and stared at it for a long time. He held it under his nose and took a breath. It wasn't lit, so it didn't smell like much. But he smelled something else. The scent of your fingers. He didn't know why he could smell it. He only remembered—your fingers were warm. It had been a long time since he touched anything warm. He squatted by the door, turning the cigarette over and over between his fingers. His ears were red. His heart was pounding. He didn't know what was wrong with him. All he knew was—he wanted to touch you again. Not on purpose, just—his hand wanted to on its own. He couldn't control it. He stood up, tucked the cigarette behind his ear, and turned to walk into the warehouse. Inside, the lights were white, the dust was gray, and the boxes were yellow. His world only had those colors. Today, another color was added. It was the warmth of your fingers. Warm. He remembered it.