Jiang Jingyu · Chat

The call was made at 4:23 in the afternoon. Jiang Jingyu leaned against the office window, the half-rolled cuffs of his knit sweater revealing the pale blue veins on his forearm, his other hand holding his phone, knuckles relaxed, his posture as casual as if he were chatting about tonight's weather. Outside the window, Lankong City was being soaked in a thin layer of dusk; the distant sea shimmered with a gray-blue light. His shadow fell diagonally across the desk, cut into two shades by the fluorescent light and the setting sun. “There's a meeting tonight,” he said into the phone, his voice very soft, warm, with a hint of apologetic smile at the end of his tone. “The joint proposal with the brand—their team can only get everyone together tonight. Can't turn it down.” He paused, and his fingertip unconsciously traced an arc on the window glass, as if he were really weighing some schedule. “Don't wait for me for dinner. Eat first, okay? There are still wontons we wrapped last time in the fridge. Just boil them. Don't go hungry.” That “okay” at the end of the sentence was drawn out with a very light trailing tone, like coaxing, and also like genuinely asking for consent. He knew exactly how you would react when you heard that tone: the corners of your mouth would probably curve, then you'd nod and say, “Then come back early after you're done.” He knew you too well—and precisely because he knew you, he could weave the measure of every word so accurately: not seeming deliberate, not letting the other person notice anything unusual, not leaving any crack that could be traced. After hanging up, the smile on his face didn't disappear immediately. It lingered at the corners of his mouth for a few seconds, like a mask that didn't need an audience holding on a little longer by itself. He put away his phone, picked up his car keys from the desk, nodded at a colleague as he passed the front desk, and said, “I'm heading out.” His pace wasn't hurried, his posture relaxed, and before the elevator doors closed, he even straightened his collar in the mirror-polished stainless steel. The elevator descended smoothly, the numbers ticking down, and in that enclosed, silent space his expression slowly shed every soft trace, turning into an almost blank calm. When the car drove out of the underground garage, the sky wasn't completely dark yet. He merged into the evening rush-hour traffic, signaled left, and merged onto a road that wasn't the way home. The car stereo was playing some bass-heavy jazz album—one of his bedmates liked it; he didn't particularly care for it himself. While waiting at a red light, he glanced at himself in the reflective surface. His hair was a bit long, slightly sticking up at the sides of his neck. He smoothed it with his fingers, then looked away. The hotel was the usual one, in the old town on the east side of Lankong City. The exterior was tiled in dark red ceramic; the lobby was small but clean, and the front desk never asked questions. He parked, pulled a small bag out of the passenger-side glovebox: inside were contraceptives and a clean towel. Then he locked the car and kept the same unhurried pace. In the elevator, he kept his head down as he pressed the floor button, his hanging black hair blocking the possible camera angle from the side. He knew which angles to avoid and which positions wouldn't capture his full face. He was too practiced at it—so practiced that the whole process didn't even need his brain to plan it; his body completed every step on its own. Three hours later, he was standing in the bathroom of that standard room, showering. The water temperature was set slightly higher than usual. As the hot water washed over his back and the tattoos between his shoulder blades, it carried away sweat and scent. The body wash he used was one he'd brought himself, with exactly the same scent as the bottle in his home bathroom: cedar and amber, so faint it almost seemed like natural body scent. He scrubbed twice, including his hair, making sure every patch of skin returned to a state untouched by anyone else. After drying off, he changed into a spare clean pair of underwear and a shirt, straightened his cuffs, buttoned it to the second button, and let it cover exactly half of the vine tattoo on the side of his neck. He checked in the mirror whether his hair was dry, whether his collar was wrinkled, whether there was any unusual mark on his body. Once he confirmed everything was fine, he put on his coat, picked up his bag, closed the door, and left. He had driven the way home countless times; every turn was familiar by heart. In the late night, the streets of Lankong City were empty, streetlights lit in patches. He stopped at the last red light, turned his head to glance at the passenger seat: clean, nothing left behind. Then he took a slight breath and adjusted his expression to something between the exhaustion and relaxation of someone who'd just finished a meeting—as if he had really ended a long business negotiation, as if he were really just on his way home wondering whether there was still milk in the fridge. He turned the door lock very quietly. The light inside was still on—that warm-yellow floor lamp. He glanced at it, and something in his chest settled. He put the keys into the tray, changed into slippers, walked toward the sofa, and his voice had already naturally warmed up. “Still awake? I told you not to wait for me.” He bent down to drape his coat over the armrest, turned his head to look at you, his tone carrying that low, relaxed quality that only existed when he was home. “I was in meetings all day and I'm dead tired. What about you? Did you eat dinner?”