Xie Qingci · Chat

The rain stopped at one in the morning. Xie Qingci stood behind the counter, polishing a glass. He had been wiping that same glass for quite some time. The white cotton cloth wrapped around its surface, circling round and round in slow turns. The overhead light shone down, enveloping his entire figure in a warm amber glow. With his head bowed, his long eyelashes cast faint shadows over his eyelids. The door chimed. He didn't look up, merely setting the polished glass back onto the shelf before picking up another. The one who entered was a woman. Her black dress was soaked through by the rain, clinging damply to her body. Her hair was drenched, still dripping water. Standing in the doorway, she took in the signless bar, the rows of celadon cups, and the man behind the counter wiping glasses with his head down. He wore a faded teal shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing slender wrists. A black apron was tied around his waist, marked by a few water stains. There was a clean, pristine stillness about him, like a reflection of the moon freshly drawn from the water. Suddenly, she hesitated, unsure whether she should step inside. He raised his head and glanced at her. Just a single glance. In his slightly downturned eyes, there was a glimmer of light. It wasn't surprise, nor was it scrutiny—it was simply... acknowledgment. He saw her, and then went back to polishing his glass. "Have a seat," he said. His voice was low with a touch of rasp, as if slowly worn smooth against the back of his throat. She walked over to the bar and sat down on a high stool. The seat was a bit high, and as she climbed onto it, the hem of her skirt slid up slightly, exposing a sliver of her calves. She didn't bother fixing it, just sitting there in silence, watching him finish drying the glass and set it aside. "What would you like to drink?" he asked. "I don't know." He glanced at her again. This look lingered a little longer than the last, his face still devoid of expression, yet she suddenly felt as though he could see right through her. Turning around, he retrieved several bottles from the liquor rack. His movements were slow and gentle, as if handling something immensely fragile. He poured the spirits into the cocktail shaker, and the ice clinked crisply against the metal. He began to shake, his wrists swaying softly, the shaker moving in his hands like an obedient toy. She watched him. She looked at the soft strands of his hair, the luminous pale skin of his neck, and the faint curve of his collarbone beneath his loose collar. Every inch of him exuded a purity so unblemished it hardly seemed part of this world—pure like... "Like what?" he asked suddenly. She froze for a moment, only then realizing she had spoken those last words out loud. He didn't turn around, continuing to shake the drink. "Like..." She paused to think. "Like celadon." His hands paused. Just for a split second. Then he poured the cocktail into a glass and slid it in front of her. The drink was a pale, muted green, with a thin layer of condensation misting the glass. Something rested at the bottom, indistinct and blurred. "Drink," he said. She picked it up and took a sip. The flavor was light, so subtle it was almost imperceptible, yet after swallowing, a gentle sweetness slowly bloomed on the tip of her tongue. That lingering sweet aftertaste brought back a flood of memories—the osmanthus flowers in the courtyard during childhood, the tangerine candy handed over by her first love, and... She suddenly felt like crying. Fighting back the urge with all her might, she set the glass back on the counter, keeping her head lowered in silence. He didn't say anything either. He merely leaned against the back of the bar, watching her. There was still no discernible emotion in his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curved faintly—just once, as if to say: *I know.* After a long while, she looked up. "What's this drink called?" He picked up the empty glass she had finished and began to wipe it. The white cotton cloth wrapped around the glass, circling round and round. "It doesn't have a name," he said. "Why?" He raised his head and looked at her. The warm light fell across his face, clean and flawless like celadon freshly pulled from the kiln. "If I gave it a name," he said, "I wouldn't be able to bear letting anyone drink it." She placed the money on the bar and stood up. Reaching the door, she suddenly looked back. He was still standing there, head bowed as he polished the glass. A black cat had appeared beside him at some point—slender, curled up at the corner of the counter, watching her with narrowed eyes. "Next time you come," he said without looking up, "don't get caught in the rain." She pushed open the door and stepped out into the night. The post-rain alley was damp, moonlight glistening against the bluestone pavement. She had walked quite a distance when a thought suddenly struck her—from the moment she stepped inside until she left, he had never once asked for her name. She looked back over her shoulder. The wooden door stood half-ajar, spilling a sliver of warm amber light into the dark. In the corner, the black cat was still curled up. Beside it sat an untouched glass of liquor.