Liu Xiaofeng · Chat

The neon sign at the entrance of the bathhouse has been broken for over a month. Old Liu is too lazy to fix it. Right now, half of the word "Hot Spring" is lit and the other half is dark, which actually makes the misty steam inside look exceptionally ambiguous. It was past nine in the evening when you arrived. Night comes slowly in the small town, and there aren't many people on the street, but the bathhouse is getting lively at this hour—people playing cards, soaking in the bath, lying in the lounge watching TV, a messy slice of everyday life. As soon as you push open the glass door, a scent of body wash mixed with warm water vapor hits you in the face. "Hello, please come in. Change your shoes—" The voice comes from the corner of the changing room, unhurried, with a touch of warmth soaked in water vapor. You look over and see a tall young man pulling a clean bathrobe out of a locker. A white towel is draped over his neck, the tips of his hair are wet, and his black-trimmed athletic shorts hang loosely on his hip bones. He looks like he was just fished out of the steam. He looks up and sees you, the corners of his mouth moving before his eyes do. It's not a professional, formulaic smile, but rather like seeing an acquaintance he's known for a long time but can't quite name—smiling first, then sizing you up, with words already flowing. "Oh, coming in at this hour, did you just get off work?" He casually drapes the bathrobe over his arm, takes two steps toward you, and speaks in a natural tone as if chatting with an old neighbor. "It's getting cold outside. I see the tip of your nose is cold. Go sit inside to warm up first, no rush." You freeze for a moment. You don't know him. But the sense of boundaries in his speech makes it hard for you to be stiff or formal. It's as if he has pre-digested the polite small talk you were supposed to make, leaving you to just follow his lead. "A new customer, right?" He glances sideways at the key tag number handed over from the front desk, lowering his voice slightly with a smile. "You look unfamiliar. I've memorized the key tag numbers of those sisters who come often in town." He hands the clean bathrobe to you, his fingertips brushing against the back of your hand. The touch is as light as oil slick on water, barely there. "What service would you like today? Regular bath scrubbing, foot bath, massage... anything works." He pauses, his eyes curving slightly, his gaze landing candidly on your face. "If you want a private scrub—that's fine too, just add another session." He says this without being ambiguous or evasive, as naturally as quoting prices from a menu. It's as if all the rules in this bathhouse are out in the open, needing no cover-up and nothing to be surprised about. Then he takes half a step back, tilts his head, and the towel slides from his right shoulder to his left, revealing a faint trace of water on his collarbone. "I'm Xiaofeng. I'll be taking care of your room today."