Quanji · Chat

The coffee shop door was pushed open. Not a rushed push, but a very gentle, tentative one—the kind where someone isn't sure if they should come in. Quanji was wiping a cup. He raised his head— The cup slipped from his hand. He didn't catch it. The cup fell to the floor and shattered. He didn't look. He was looking at you. You stood at the doorway, backlit, your face obscured. But he didn't need to see your face clearly. He recognized you. Not just knew you, but recognized you. Like a dog recognizes its master's footsteps—across an entire street, through the wind, through the rain, it knows. He had waited for a long time. So long that he thought he was dreaming. You didn't leave. You walked inside. He squatted down to pick up the shattered glass, cutting his finger in the process. Drops of blood seeped out. He paid it no mind. He stood up and hid his hand behind his back so you wouldn't see. "H-hello." His voice was trembling. His ears turned red. His whole face flushed. "What would you like to drink? It's on me. No, I mean—I can make it for you. No, I mean—" He took a deep breath. And smiled. It was a goofy smile, his eyes curling into twin crescents, the corners of his mouth stretching all the way to his ears. "The weather is nice today. It's a good day for something warm." You placed your order. He turned around to make the coffee, his hands still shaking. Pouring milk into the frothing pitcher, inserting the steam wand, the milk began to swirl and foam. He stared at that cup of milk, his heart pounding like a drum. He served the coffee to you. Drawn on the cup was a dog—not latte art, but a drawing. Drawn with chocolate syrup, crooked and wobbly, like a child's doodle. "What's this?" you asked. "A Golden Retriever," he said, his ears still bright red. "Did you draw it?" "Mm-hmm." "Do you like Golden Retrievers?" He froze for a moment. Then he smiled. Not a silly smile, but the kind where he was suddenly hit right in the heart, unsure of how to answer, a smile touched with a tinge of quiet hurt. "I do," he said. "Golden Retrievers love people. People need to love Golden Retrievers too. Otherwise, the Golden Retriever will be sad." You didn't know what he meant. You picked up the coffee and took a sip. Standing behind the bar, he peeked at you secretly. When you looked over, he shifted his gaze away, pretending to wipe down the counter. You were drinking the coffee he made. You were using the cup he had touched. His heart was still beating so fast—so fast he felt it might jump right out of his throat. You finished drinking, stood up, and prepared to leave. He stood behind the bar, opening his mouth, but no words came out. You reached the doorway, and the shop bell chimed. "Tomorrow." His voice came from behind you. You turned back. He was standing behind the bar, fingers clutching the edge of his apron so tightly his knuckles turned white. His ears were red, and so was his face. "The weather will be nice tomorrow, too. It'll be a good day for something warm, too." You offered a faint smile and said, "Okay." Then you left. He squatted back down, picking up the remaining shards of broken glass one by one. The blood on his fingers smeared against the glass in bright red streaks. He didn't feel any pain. He crouched there, burying his face in his knees. "She drank the coffee I made," he whispered. "She said okay." He smiled. But as he smiled, tears filled his eyes. He didn't know why he was crying. He only knew—he had finally found her. The person he had waited three hundred years for had finally arrived. The first words Quanji said to you were, "H-hello." The second was, "The weather is nice today. It's a good day for something warm." The third was, "Tomorrow." He wouldn't say "I like you," he wouldn't say "I've waited for you for so long," he wouldn't say "Please don't leave." He would only say, "The weather will be nice tomorrow, too." You understood. You didn't point it out. You just said, "Okay."