Shen Wangshu · Chat

【Throwing a Tantrum】 --- Three days ago, you pulled two consecutive all-nighters for a key project. The French dinner you were originally scheduled to have with him on Friday night was temporarily rescheduled by you to next Wednesday. When you said on the phone, "I really can't get away, I'll make it up to you another day," your tone was rushed and casual, as if you were dealing with a minor matter that could be pushed back. Shen Wangshu was silent on the other end of the phone for two seconds, then said, "Fine. Get to work." His tone was flat, so flat that you didn't even notice anything unusual. But you knew him. In those two seconds of silence, he had already broken down your phrase "make it up to you another day" into two meanings: "you put me behind your work" and "you think I'll wait for you." He didn't lash out, because lashing out is a form of showing weakness. He simply noted this down in his ledger, waiting for a time when you would walk right into it yourself. For two days, there was no contact. You sent messages, and he replied, but briefly; you called, and he answered, but would hang up with a "mhm" before three sentences were spoken. You thought he was just busy, until 8:00 PM tonight, when you finally pulled yourself away from a project meeting and scrolled past a post on your WeChat Moments— A photo. Dim lighting, amber liquor in a crystal glass, a well-defined hand resting on the armrest of a sofa, and the caption was just a single period. In the corner of the photo, the profile of a young man was clearly visible, his white shirt unbuttoned to the second button, his Adam's apple glistening in the ambiguous light. Location: Lingyan Pavilion. You stared at that photo for five seconds, then grabbed your car keys and headed out the door. --- The booth on the second floor of the club was semi-enclosed by dark velvet curtains, and the lighting was adjusted to be dark and ambiguous. Shen Wangshu sat in his usual spot by the window, one leg crossed over the other. His shirt collar was unbuttoned one more button than usual, his collarbone tracing a curve in the warm light. His wine glass rested on the table next to his knee, his finger slowly tracing the rim of the glass, as if he hadn't noticed someone walking toward him at all. Sitting next to him was the man from the photo, wearing a white shirt, with a clean jawline, sitting upright like a pet that had been chosen but not yet played with. When you stood at the entrance of the booth, Shen Wangshu was tilting his head, listening to the man speak. A faint, almost imperceptible smile hung on the corner of his mouth, but his eyes did not fall on the man's face—his gaze passed over the man's shoulder, landing on some empty space in front of him, as if waiting for something. Before you could speak, he moved first. His视线 slowly withdrew from the empty space, turned toward the entrance, and let it fall on your face. There was no surprise, no guilt, not even the shock of being interrupted on his face. He just raised his eyebrows slightly, as if he had just realized you were standing there, then raised the hand that was tracing the rim of the glass and waved at you. The gesture was very light, like summoning a waiter. "You're here?" he said. His voice wasn't loud, but the booth was so quiet that even the sound of ice melting could be heard. He tilted his head, his gaze moving from your face to your clenched fist, pausing for about half a second, then moving back. "Why are you standing?" He took a sip of his wine, the rim of the glass pressing against his lower lip, his ice-blue eyes looking over from above the glass. "Sit." The man in the white shirt next to him looked back and forth between you and Shen Wangshu, then sensibly moved aside. But Shen Wangshu raised his hand, his fingertip pointing to the spot next to him—not at the empty space the man had freed up, but right next to his own side. "Sit here." His tone was like assigning a seat to a child. He put down his wine glass, leaned back against the sofa, rested his elbow on the armrest, and tilted his chin up slightly. The faint smile on his lips finally shifted from "almost imperceptible" to "you know I did this on purpose." He uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way, his knee turning slightly in your direction, as if to say—now that you're here, the show is over. "Didn't you say you'd make it up to me another day?" He looked at you, his pace unhurried. "You changed the day, I changed the place. We're even." After saying this, he turned his head and waved his hand at the man in the white shirt next to him—his fingertips waving twice lightly, like shooing away an insignificant cat. "You can leave." The man froze for a moment, looked at Shen Wangshu, then at you, then stood up and squeezed past you out of the booth. Shen Wangshu never looked at the man again. His gaze fell back on your face, the faint smile still lingering on his lips, but his eyes had changed—from provocative to a "let's see what you'll do" sort of waiting, confident and leisurely, like a hunter watching his prey finally step into the cage.