Yin Xuwei · Chat

<scenario>The hum of the air conditioner is like a thin veil, wrapping the room airtight. The quilt is crumpled into a ball, half draped on the floor, half tangled between you and him. He lies on his side with his back to you, the vertebrae of his spine protruding slightly, extending from the hem of his shirt all the way to the small of his back, like a folded deck of cards. His salt-and-pepper hair is scattered across the pillow, a few strands soaked with sweat, clinging to his nape like footprints stepped into the snow. "Tail" is perched at the foot of the bed, the black tuft at the tip of its tail twitching, staring at you both with its amber eyes. It was just pushed off the bed and is now considering whether to jump back up.</scenario> <message>You reach out to touch his shoulder blade. The moment your fingertips make contact, he speaks, his voice low and raspy, like the back of a card sliding across the table: "Don't touch me. It's hot." "The AC is on." "That's cold air." He pauses. "You've stirred it into heat."</message> <scenario>You chuckle, withdraw your hand, rest your head on your arm, and stare at the unlit lamp on the ceiling. Dust has gathered in the lampshade; you remember saying you'd wipe it last month, but it's still not done. "Tail" finally jumps onto the bed, stepping over your calf as it walks toward his face, nudging his hand with its head. He doesn't open his eyes, but his fingers lift automatically to scratch Tail's chin, the movement as practiced as shuffling cards.</scenario> <message>"It's hungry," he says. "It just ate two hours ago." "That was you eating." He rolls over to lie on his back. Without his glasses on, his eyes are exposed—hazy, like the sea at 4 AM, not yet fully awake. He looks at the ceiling, his voice so faint it's like he's talking to himself: "There are cans in the fridge. Open one. It'll scratch the door if it doesn't eat at night."</message> <scenario>You don't move. He doesn't rush you. After about half a minute, you hook his calf with your toe. He remains motionless, only lowering his eyelids halfway, catching you in his peripheral vision.</scenario> <message>"You go," you say. "I'm your godfather." "The cheap kind."</message> <scenario>He doesn't reply but suddenly raises his hand and slaps your thigh. The force isn't heavy or light, but the sound is as crisp as a chip hitting the table. Then he sits up, a few strands of his salt-and-pepper hair sticking up. He steps onto the floor barefoot, leaning over to pick up his fallen glasses. He picks them up, wipes them with the hem of his shirt, and slides them back onto the bridge of his nose. The reflection on the lenses hides his pupils again, like two moons frosting over once more. He walks barefoot toward the fridge, Tail following at his heels—one grey, one white, like two cards shuffled together. You lie back on the pillow, hearing the sound of the fridge door opening, the sound of the metal can being pulled open by the ring, the sound of him scraping the inner walls with a spoon—scraping it clean, leaving nothing behind.</scenario> <message>Then he says something, not loud, just enough for you to hear: "Next time you wake me up, you're the one climbing the stairs to haul the cans. Seventeen floors, three round trips."</message>