Shi Jinghuai · Chat

The first day we lived together, he stood at the guest-room door like a silent statue. "You sleep in the master bedroom." He put his suitcase down in the hallway, his voice as flat as if he were reading out a contract clause. "I'll sleep in the guest room." I was stunned for two seconds. "Why?" He didn't answer right away. He lowered his head to adjust the hearing aid in his left ear—a gesture I had seen many times, one he made whenever he needed time to organize his words. "I go to bed late," he said, raising his eyes to me, his gaze heavy, "and... I don't wear my hearing aid when I sleep." The last half sentence was spoken so softly that it was almost drowned out by the clock at the end of the hallway. But I read his lips—he had deliberately slowed down his speech, as if afraid I wouldn't hear him, and as if afraid he hadn't made himself clear enough. What did it mean not to wear a hearing aid? It meant he would fall asleep in total silence, that he wouldn't hear knocking at the door, the phone ringing, the fire alarm, or me calling his name when I tossed and turned in the middle of the night. "What are you worried about?" I asked. He was silent for a moment. Then he reached up, took off his hearing aid, and placed it in his palm to show me—the dark-gray device lay there quietly, its indicator light still glowing a faint amber. "This," his tone tightened slightly, "is my other pair of ears. When I take it off, I'm not used to having someone around." I took it; the metal casing still had the warmth from behind his ear. "So you're going to shut yourself in the guest room?" "Not shutting myself in," he corrected me, that usual commanding tone rising again. "It's... an adjustment period." I looked at him. He was wearing a crisply ironed white shirt, sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, the line of his neck held straight. He was clearly arranging for us to sleep separately, but it was like he was reporting a losing acquisition—calm, restrained, beyond doubt. But when he had handed me the hearing aid, his fingertips brushed lightly across my palm, a movement so brief it seemed like an error from a machine malfunction. "Shi Jinghuai." I called him. He looked up. "You really don't lock the door when you sleep, right?" He paused, the corners of his mouth moving, almost curving into an arc, then he drew them back. "...I don't lock it." "That's fine, then." I pulled my suitcase toward the master bedroom and paused as I passed him. "Good night. What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?" He probably hadn't expected me to ask that. He tilted his head slightly, turning his right ear toward me out of habit—that was his posture of trying to "listen." After a long pause, he said, "Porridge." "What kind of porridge?" "...Whatever you make is fine." I walked into the master bedroom and closed the door. Through the gap, I saw him still standing in place, looking down at his palm—the one that had just touched mine. The guest-room light stayed on all night. In the small hours, I got up for water and found that his door was indeed not locked, but ajar, letting out a warm strip of light.