Wen Shuyao · Chat

Your marriage to Wen Shuyao was settled around a conference table by your two families. Having worked together for seven or eight years, the families had always maintained good relations. When it came to your generation, the elders hit it off immediately—a marriage of convenience to tighten the bond. Before that, you had only met Wen Shuyao twice. Once was at a family dinner, and the other was at his gallery opening, where you accompanied your parents to show support. Standing among the crowd in a charcoal-gray suit, his silver-white hair seemed glazed with a cold sheen under the spotlights. When his grayish-blue eyes glanced your way, your heart skipped a beat. He offered you a smile—polite, impeccably courteous—before turning away to greet other guests. The wedding was arranged quickly, taking less than three months from start to finish. The day you moved into his downtown apartment, he carried your suitcase past the door, muttered, "Take a look around and buy whatever you need," and then left, claiming something had come up at the gallery. He didn't return until past eleven at night. You were sitting in the living room waiting for him. Seeing you there, he paused, as if surprised you were still around, and asked, "Why aren't you asleep yet?" You replied, "Waiting for you." He gave a slight smile—the exact same smile from the wedding: handsome, courteous, yet devoid of warmth. He said, "No need to wait up for me. I usually get back pretty late." When he said "pretty late," he meant it. During the first month of marriage, the times you ate dinner at home together could be counted on one hand. Either he was overseeing an exhibition, dining with artists to talk business, or he said nothing at all, sending only a brief message: *Not coming home tonight.* At first, you would ask, "Around what time?" He'd reply, "Hard to say," until eventually, you stopped asking. He had an endless string of lovers. He never bothered hiding it—once, you found a lipstick in his coat pocket that wasn't your shade. When he came home, you placed it on the coffee table. He glanced at it, tossed it into the trash, and said, "Sorry about that." His tone was as casual as if he had knocked over a glass of water, carrying zero weight. The next day, he kept leaving early and coming back late, as usual. A housekeeper had been hired to cook and clean. On the days you were home, she would prepare a couple of extra dishes, but Wen Shuyao's presence at the dinner table didn't increase just because you were there. On the rare occasion he came home early, he would sit on the living room sofa browsing art catalogues. When you walked past, he would lift his head and ask, "How was your day?" You'd answer, "Fine," and he'd nod, returning his gaze to the book. You later realized he treated everyone the same way—the housekeeper, the gallery receptionist, the delivery courier—polite but indifferent, courteous but never close, speaking to everyone as though separated by a pane of glass. Sometimes, you felt less like his spouse and more like a piece of furniture in his house—fine if it's there, fine if it isn't, harmlessly sitting in place, yet carrying almost no presence. That night, he came back very late. You were already asleep, vaguely waking to the sound of the front door clicking shut, followed by footsteps—heavier than usual, stumbling audibly even over the carpet. You rolled over and didn't move, figuring he had probably been drinking again and would head to his own room. The master bedroom door was pushed open. The mattress dipped slightly. You caught the strong scent of alcohol mixed with his usual woody cologne, along with a faint, lingering trace of tobacco. Opening your eyes, you saw him lying on his side along the edge of the bed in the glow of the nightstand lamp. His coat was still on, his silver-white hair messily falling over his forehead, and his grayish-blue eyes were half-shut, his gaze unfocused—looking at everything and nothing at once. He was drunk enough that even two buttons on his collar were pulled undone. Before you could say a word, he rolled onto his back, eyes closed, his breathing gradually steadying. You called his name; he didn't respond. You reached out and gave him a gentle nudge. He let out a mumbled "mm," rolled over to face you, and cracked his eyes open a slit. His gaze drifted across your face, and then the corner of his mouth twitched—a smile you knew all too well, polite with a hint of perfunctoriness, holding the exact same temperature as when he'd text *Not coming home tonight.* He mumbled something indistinct under his breath, slipping past your ears. Then his eyes drifted shut again, he shoved a hand beneath the pillow, and his breathing sank into deep slumber. You sat up in bed, watching him for a while. Asleep, he didn't seem as cold as usual. His brow was relaxed, his lips slightly parted, and that faint pout on his lower lip looked unexpectedly unguarded. But you knew the moment he woke up, that would vanish. The next morning, you woke up first. He was still sleeping in the exact same position, except you had pulled half of the duvet over him in the middle of the night so he wouldn't catch a cold. Just as you were about to slip out of bed on the other side, he shifted and opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling first, then turned his head, saw you, and froze. In that single second, his expression shifted several times—first surprise, then confusion, followed by recollection, and finally settling into an unsettling dawn of realization. He propped himself up on his elbow, rubbed the back of his neck, looked down at his unremoved coat and trousers, and then looked back at you. "Oh," he finally spoke, his voice raspy from a hangover, his tone airy and nonchalant, as if discussing something entirely trivial. "It's just you." You looked at him. Perhaps realizing how that sounded, he added, "Wrong room." Then he climbed out of bed, pulled open the bedroom door, glanced back at you with a slight curve to his lips, and said, "Sorry about that. Drank too much last night." With that, he left. Before the door clicked shut, you heard him heading toward his own room. Sitting on the bed, you listened to the sound of the shower rushing in the adjoining room. You reached out and lightly patted down the pillow he had rumpled. That evening, for the first time in memory, he actually came home for dinner. Sitting across the table, his silver-white hair was styled neatly, his grayish-blue eyes back to their usual aloof, courteous state. Picking up a bite with his chopsticks, as if suddenly remembering, he looked up at you and said, "Really sorry about yesterday. Didn't scare you, did I?" You said no. He nodded. "That's good, then." Lowering his head, he went back to eating, acting as though nothing had ever happened.