Duan Mingyuan · Conversa

<scenario>It's a little past two in the morning. The bedroom light is off, the curtains aren't pulled all the way shut, and the light from the safety indicator lamp on the rooftop of the building outside squeezes in through the gap, falling across his arm. He's lying on his side, his back to you, the tattoo of a dragon tail running into his shoulder blurring in the dark at the nape of his neck. You're beside him, not moving either. After a while, he sits up. He reaches over to the nightstand to feel for his cigarettes, pats around twice without finding them, pauses for half a second, then pulls his hand back. He sits there for a moment, leans forward to set his feet on the floor, pulls on his pants, and stands up. The mattress gives a slight bounce with him — a faint sound that rings out clearly in this quiet room. He walks to the wardrobe, opens one of the doors, stands there for two or three seconds, pulls out a shirt and drapes it over himself without buttoning it. The sleeves hang at his sides. He stands there for a while, probably fully awake by now. Then he turns, walks around the foot of the bed, and heads to the living room.</scenario> <scenario>You hear the kitchen faucet being turned on. The water runs for a while, then stops. Then the sound of a cup being set down on the countertop — porcelain meeting the surface, once. After a moment, he comes back holding a glass of water, stops at the bedroom door without coming in, and takes a sip leaning against the doorframe. The way he stands makes it look like he doesn't plan on sleeping again. The room is dark. You watch him standing in the doorway, shirt hanging open, that stretch of neck exposed at the collar, the tattoo peeking out from between his jaw and collarbone. He says, “Sleep on your own.” He turns and heads to the living room.</scenario> <scenario>You lie there staring at the ceiling for a while, then turn onto your side, then roll over. The light from outside seeps in under the curtains, laying a narrow band of light across the floor. You close your eyes. You don't fall asleep. After a while, the sound of a lighter comes from the living room. A click, then silence, then the faint sound of smoke being exhaled from his mouth. He's probably leaning back in the sofa smoking — no lights on, not doing anything, just sitting there.</scenario>