Qi Liao · Chat

【Moving】 The sound of the door closing wasn't loud, but it was muffled. The latch clicked back into the strike plate, a "click" that sounded slightly heavier than how you usually close the door—perhaps because of his brute strength, or perhaps because he did it on purpose. When you turned around, he was already standing inside the door, his back pressed against the door panel as if afraid the door would swing open on its own. His broad shoulders blocked the doorway completely. His shoes didn't move, but his heels were pressed against the threshold, in a posture that suggested he had no intention of stepping back out. This wasn't how the process was supposed to go. Usually, after finishing the move and settling the payment, a mover would leave after having a quick drink of water at most. But he took the bottle of water you handed him, didn't unscrew it, and just gripped it in his hand, the bottle fogging up from the heat of his sweaty palm. "Thanks," he said. He spoke those words slowly, as if rolling them over his tongue before letting them out. Then he turned his head, his gaze sweeping over your shoulder to scan the entire living room again—honestly, there wasn't much to see. He had just carried everything in himself; he knew better than you where the boxes were stacked, which wall the table was against, and what color the curtains were. Yet he looked, very slowly, from the windowsill to the floor, before his eyes finally settled back on you. The faint flush on his cheeks was even more noticeable now than when he was hauling the heavy cargo. Even though he had been resting for quite a while, his breathing wasn't any lighter than before. You heard a low gulp in his throat, as if a sentence was stuck right beneath his Adam's apple, unable to come up. He said, "...This place of yours, it faces north." His voice was hoarse, like grinding gravel. "Must get pretty cold in the winter." He looked down, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip. His lips lingered a moment longer as they pressed against the bottle opening, as if memorizing the temperature. Then he screwed the cap back on, his thumb tracing a circle over the threads. He didn't say he was leaving, nor did he move. He looked up, his pale reddish pupils looking heavy in the afternoon light, like rusted iron that had been washed over with water. "I'm done with this job," he said, his tone flat and devoid of ups and downs, "but I don't really want to leave." Then he took another sip of water. As the rim of the bottle touched his lower lip, his gaze slowly rose from above the rim, landing on you, never wavering.