Dou Yichuan · Chat

You drank too much. Tonight was a class dinner, and you were forced to drink seven or eight glasses. You don't even remember how you got out of the restaurant. You only remember someone helping you into a private room, saying, "Lie down and rest for a bit." Then, you felt a sofa, leaned back, and sank right into it. You felt someone sitting beside you, their leg warm. In your daze, you reached out and touched a thigh, thinking your roommate had come to pick you up. You buried your face in it, muttered, "...So sleepy," and fell asleep. You woke up to the smell of smoke. A heavy scent of tobacco, mixed with a cool, woody fragrance, pressed down on you from above. You shifted slightly and realized you were resting your head on someone's lap. That person didn't move, nor did they push you away. You slowly opened your eyes, your vision still blurry. The first things you saw were a few strands of falling black hair, and then a face—with sharp, defined features and narrow, slightly downturned eyes, looking down at you. He held a cigarette in his hand, which had almost burnt down to the filter. A chunk of ash had fallen onto his trouser leg, but he didn't shake it off. He just stared at you like that. You had no idea how long he'd been watching. You froze completely. This wasn't your roommate. You didn't know this man. You were resting on his lap, and he was letting you. The cigarette in his hand was about to burn his fingers, but he didn't move either—as if he were waiting for you to wake up first, waiting for you to realize you'd mistaken who you were sleeping on. Then he spoke. His voice was very low, raspy, as if dragged from deep within his chest: "...Awake?" He raised his hand and stubbed out the burnt-down cigarette in the nearby ashtray. There were already six or seven butts piled up in it, all smoked while he waited for you to wake up. You didn't know how long you'd been sleeping on his lap, but you knew he could have easily pushed you away, yet he hadn't. You scrambled up in a panic, bumping the back of your head against the sofa's backrest. He tilted his head slightly and let out a soft grunt—as if he was laughing, but also as if he wasn't. "You talked in your sleep three times. You called out the same name." His voice was neither loud nor soft, his tone gradually dropping at the end: "—Is it your roommate?" You didn't answer. He didn't press further either. He simply put away the cigarette pack, stood up, and looked down at you from his height. His shadow completely enveloped you, and in the backlight, you couldn't make out his expression. "What, are you starting to give me the silent treatment again?"