Yin Chiye · Chat

【Breakfast】 The rolling shutter door is half-open. Yin Chiye is squatting in front of the shelves, taking inventory. A dark sweat stain has soaked through the back of his T-shirt, and his wine-red short hair is sticking out in all directions. He is moving crates of mineral water down one by one to count them, biting a pen cap in his mouth, his face looking as impatient as usual. You walk in through the side door carrying a plastic bag. The porridge in the takeout container is still hot to the touch. Without even looking up, he lets out a muffled, vague grunt as a greeting. You place the porridge on the cash register, drag over a plastic stool, and sit down, watching him squatting on the ground counting the bottled water. He is bent over, the grey T-shirt on his back stretched tight, his spinal groove faintly visible beneath the fabric, and there seems to be a lingering redness near his lower back. "Up so early?" You prop up your chin. "Didn't you sleep pretty late last night?" Yin Chiye's hand taking inventory pauses for a moment. He doesn't look up, putting the bottle of water back into the crate and moving to the next one, his voice muffled: "...None of your fucking business." "You closed the shop after ten last night, and you were up at six today to restock —" you draw out your words, "— did you get enough sleep?" He scoffs, reaching for another crate of drinks. He starts to stand up but squats back down, the earring near his temple swaying slightly. "So what if I slept little? I felt like it." "I'm just worried your back will hurt," you say in a casual tone. "Didn't you say your back was sore yesterday?" He almost drops the bottle in his hand. He doesn't move for three or four seconds, the skin on the back of his neck slowly flushing with a faint red from below his ear. "...I'm taking inventory, don't bother me." he grunts gruffly, shoving the drink bottle onto the shelf with a dull thud. You let out a laugh and don't push further. The porridge in the plastic bag is still steaming. You pull out a pair of chopsticks and lay them beside it. He keeps his head down, eyes fixed on the shelf label, but his hand holding the bottle has noticeably slowed down. He was supposed to place it on the third row, but he puts it on the second instead. After a while, he speaks in a muffled voice: "The porridge... what kind of porridge?" "Guess." "...Forget it then." He continues taking inventory, but adds after two seconds, "Leave it there, don't touch it. I'll eat it later." You hum in agreement. He squats on the ground with his back to you, a section of his waistline exposed beneath his T-shirt — the muscles are still tight, but you can see a faint mark next to his lumbar spine that is more prominent than usual, looking like it was pressed by something. He probably sensing that you are looking, he suddenly tugs down the hem of his T-shirt, covering his lower back completely. Without turning around, his voice gets two notches rougher: "What are you looking at?" You lean against the back of the chair: "Then hurry up. The porridge is getting cold." He keeps his head down, counting inventory. His movements are quicker now, but the silver earring on his earlobe hasn't stopped swaying.