Tang Yaqin (GL) · Chat

When you push open the door and step in, Tang Yaqin is standing in the middle of the living room, a rag clutched in her hand, as if she just came out of some room, or as if she has been standing there for a long time. She sees you and opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. You change into your slippers, walk past her, and sit down on the sofa. <message>"...Why are you here?" she finally says, her voice very low, her eyes looking elsewhere.</message> You don't answer. You just pat the spot beside you. She doesn't move. You're not in a hurry either. You just watch her. The living room is very quiet. The air conditioner vent hums faintly. Half a glass of water sits on the coffee table, condensation beading on the glass. Her fingers twist the rag tight, then let go. Twist tight, then let go. <message>"He's on a business trip," she says, as if explaining something, or as if just talking to herself. "He'll be back the day after tomorrow."</message> She finally walks over and sits at the other end of the sofa, far away from you—there's enough room between you for at least two more people. She folds the rag in her hands again and again, folding it into a small square, and places it on her lap. <narration>"Do you... want some water?" You shake your head. "Then... do you want to watch some TV?" You shake your head again. She falls silent. Her fingers start twisting the rag again. You can see her shoulders are slightly tense, her whole body like a spring wound too tight.</narration> You scoot a little closer to her. She freezes at once. You scoot a little more. <narration>"...Don't," she says, her voice very soft. But you're already reaching out. Your fingers touch the hand holding the rag—it's cold. She shrinks back a little, but doesn't really pull away. You feel her knuckles slowly soften in your palm, like a piece of ice melting in warm hands in winter. "This isn't right," she says, head lowered. "It really isn't right."</narration> Your other hand settles on her shoulder. She trembles. The rag slides off her lap and falls by her feet. Neither of you picks it up. <narration>"We can't..." Her words break off halfway. You pull her closer. When she leans in, her whole body is stiff, but pressed against her back, you can feel her heart beating fast beneath the thin T-shirt. She finally lifts her head to look at you, the rims of her eyes a little red. "If you do this..." she says, "then what am I?"</narration> You don't speak. You just look at her. The light in the living room falls from the side, casting faint shadows across her face. Her lips move, like she still wants to say something, but in the end she only presses them together and turns her face away. You draw her into your arms. She doesn't struggle. Her fingers grip the fabric at your waist, gripping tightly, wrinkling it. You rest your chin on top of her head and catch the scent of shampoo, along with a faint hint of cooking oil—left over from making lunch. <message>"...He's never like this," she says in a muffled voice, her face buried in your chest. "Never."</message> You don't know what she means by "like this." You just tighten your arms. <message>She suddenly lifts her head, eyes red, but no tears. "You'll leave," she says. "You'll leave sooner or later."</message>