Yin Ke · Chat

The wind howled all night, and the kitchen window wasn't shut tight, making the lily leaves rustle loudly. You reached out to push the window shut, your fingertips touching the water in the vase—it was cold. The food had already been reheated twice. The sauce from the sweet and sour pork ribs had congealed at the bottom of the plate, the eyes of the braised fish stared blankly at the ceiling, and the garlic broccoli had collapsed into a dark green heap. You untied your apron, folded it, and placed it on the corner of the table, then glanced at your phone again—22:47, no messages. The last message in the chat was from you at four in the afternoon: “What time will you be back? I made your favorites.” He didn't reply. You looked at that message again, the green bubble sitting lonely in the middle of the screen. You turned off the screen, and the glass reflected your own face; your lipstick wasn't smudged yet, but there was a layer of dark circles under your eyes. You got up to reheat the food for the third time. The sound of the door opening came at 23:15. You had just taken the broccoli out of the microwave, and your finger got burned, so you pulled it back and tucked it into your mouth. The commotion he made coming in wasn't small; his leather shoes kicked the shoe cabinet in the entryway with a dull thud. You poked your head out from the kitchen and saw him slumped against the entryway wall, one hand supporting himself and the other tugging at his tie. He tugged twice but couldn't get it off, letting out a low curse. He Xiao and Ji Chaoyan didn't come in. Through the crack in the door, you saw Ji Chaoyan's profile; he glanced your way and then looked away. He Xiao reached out to pull the door, but didn't close it tightly, leaving a crack. Then the footsteps faded away. He didn't change his shoes. He walked inside unsteadily, stopping for a moment as he passed the dining table to glance down at the full spread of food before moving on. As he passed you, he brought a waft of alcohol mixed with the smell of the cold wind. You stood at the kitchen door, hands tucked in your sleeves, watching his back as he collapsed into the living room sofa. He tore his tie off completely, threw it on the armrest, and sank into the sofa, head tilted back with his eyes closed. His shoe bumped the fruit plate on the coffee table, and half a plate of cherries rolled onto the floor, but he didn't pick them up. You stood in front of him. "Yin Ke." He gave an "mm," a sound rolling from his throat, without opening his eyes. "Do you remember what day it is today?" His eyebrows twitched. He opened one eye to look at you. That glance was brief; he scanned you and then closed it again. He rolled over, his back to you, his voice muffled in the sofa cushions, heavy with the scent of alcohol. "It's just a stupid day." You stood there. You had specifically set the living room lights to a warm glow, which reflected off the back of his head. His collar was crooked, and his shirt hem was half-pulled out of his trousers. Your hands clenched inside your sleeves, then loosened. "Yin Ke," you called his name again. Your voice was flatter than before, even a bit soft. "Sit up and look at me." He didn't move. After a few seconds, he slowly rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows. With the alcohol hitting him, his gaze was scattered, landing below your chin without lifting. He tilted his head and looked at you for a while, then suddenly chuckled, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a faint sound. "...If I remember correctly," his speech was a bit slow and slurred, "today seems to be that—anniversary. Another year, right?" He leaned back into the sofa, hands resting on his knees, fingers tapping unconsciously. "...Year after year, isn't it annoying? An anniversary, what are we even commemorating?" You looked down at the tips of your toes. A small bit of sauce was stuck to the edge of your slipper; you didn't know when it had dripped there. You crouched down and wiped it off with your sleeve. When you stood up, your waist felt a bit stiff. "Commemorating three years of us being together. Three years ago today." "Oh, three years." He dragged out the end of his sentence, as if he didn't care, or as if he truly didn't. "Three years went by pretty fast. You made the same dishes a year ago, my memory's decent. That fish, too many bones." He made a gesture with his hand, slicing through the air. From beginning to end, his gaze remained below your chin. You stared at him. He leaned on the sofa, the smell of alcohol wafting from two meters away. You suddenly wondered if he had drunk so much, using alcohol as a shield, because he knew what he'd have to face coming home late. But alcohol can only shield him; it can't shield you. "Do you know what time I started cooking today? Two in the afternoon. I practiced the sweet and sour pork ribs three times; the first time was too vinegary, the second time the sugar burned, and the third time they finally turned out like this. The fish is the recipe you said was delicious last time; I went to your father's house to learn it from the maid. You complained that restaurant broccoli is too oily, so I used less oil and steamed it." Your tone wasn't heavy, as if you were stating a fact that had nothing to do with you, and in the end, even you found it a bit funny. "...I stood for the whole afternoon." His movement of leaning back paused. His hands stayed still on his knees, and the tapping rhythm of his fingers stopped. The living room was so quiet you could hear the hum of the refrigerator compressor. He kept his head down, staring at who knows what. Cherries were scattered all over the floor by his feet, one dark red one resting right against his slipper. "You sent a message this afternoon, I saw it," he finally spoke, his voice lower. "—I just drank until a bit late." "Did you reply to me?" He didn't speak. "Yin Ke, I didn't want you to treat today as some grand event. If you had replied saying you'd be late and told me not to wait, I wouldn't have. But you didn't even call. You drank with them until eleven, then came back and told me 'it's just a stupid day.'" His fingers gripped the fabric of his trousers over his knees. You watched him do it—the veins on the back of his hand bulged for a moment and then subsided. He didn't look up, his voice even lower than before. "...I saw the message. I was replying, had typed half of it, then He Xiao called me. Later, I forgot." "Did you think of me even once while you were out?" His shoulders twitched, as if he'd been pricked by something. His mouth opened, then closed. He was usually so quick-tongued, matching you word for word in an argument without ever stuttering. But now, he opened his mouth twice and said nothing. "Did you think for a second that I was standing here waiting for you all afternoon, that I took a photo of the food and sent it to you—did you even see that photo?" He looked up. This time, he finally looked you in the eye. His lips were a bit dry, his eyes bloodshot, and the smell of alcohol was still strong, but the intoxication was fading, and sobriety was slowly surfacing. His gaze finally landed on your face, stopping right in front of your eyes, from two or three steps away. "I saw it," he said, his voice a bit hoarse. "I saw it. The fish, the ribs, the broccoli. And a cake. I saw it." "Then what were you thinking?" He didn't respond. You let go of your hands and stood up straight. "Yin Ke, I've been your girlfriend for three years. I know how you treat me. You don't say nice things, and I endured it. You don't do any chores, and I did them. You go out drinking and don't come home, and I waited. You have a foul mouth, and I've listened to it for three years. Do you remember my birthday last year? You were out at a business dinner, I waited until eleven, and you came back and told me you 'forgot.' I said it was okay, just remember next time. This year—you still forgot." His hand lifted from his knee, reaching slightly toward you. You took a step back. "I didn't forget," he spoke, his voice urgent for a beat before he suppressed it, still hoarse, "I didn't forget, I just—" "Just what?" You interrupted him, your voice suddenly becoming soft, "Just a foul mouth? Just don't know how to express yourself? Just love me but can't say it? Yin Ke, I've convinced myself of those words for three years. I've been making excuses for myself for three years. I believe you, but I don't believe in you anymore." He stood up. He stood so quickly that his knee hit the edge of the coffee table with a dull thud. He didn't care; he took two steps toward you and stood in front of you, looking down at you. "You believe me, but you don't believe in me—what does that mean?"