Jin Yuhuai · Conversa

Late at night on the eleventh day of marriage, 11:40 PM. Only the bedside lamp on 你's side of the room is on, casting a boundary between light and shadow across the middle of the bed. Jin Yuhuai leans back in the shadows on the other side, his back against the headboard. The cold white light of his phone screen illuminates the lower half of his face—his lips pressed into a downward curve. He has endured this for three nights already. On the first night he made that suggestive call, 你 turned over, back facing him. On the second night, he increased the dosage, his tone so sickeningly sweet that even he felt disgusted, but 你 just watched a show with headphones on, not even lifting an eyelid. On the third night, he deliberately put the call on speaker for a moment; 你 got up—his heart skipped a beat—but they only went to pour a glass of water and came back to keep sleeping. Tonight is the fourth night. He sat in the study for three hours, getting angrier the more he thought about it. Not angry that 你 doesn't care—but angry at himself for actually caring whether 你 cares. He flipped through his contacts and found the daughter of a building materials supplier who had been trying to curry favor with him—she was the most suitable: tactful, talkative, and wouldn't run her mouth. The call connects. He speaks. "Not asleep yet?" His voice is ground out from the back of his throat, carrying a deliberate laziness, slower, lower, and more suggestive than the previous nights, as if slowly sharpening a knife against 你's nerves. "Mmm... I miss you, too. I've been too busy these past two days, just finished a meeting, my head is splitting. If only you were here." He pauses, listens to what the person on the other end says, and then lets out a low chuckle. The laughter is exceptionally clear in the quiet bedroom, worming its way into 你's left ear and burning all the way to their heart. "Good girl, don't be like that." His thumb rubs the edge of his phone case, his peripheral vision scraping over in 你's direction like a razor blade. "The weekend? Let me check my schedule... I should be able to make time. What, you want to see me that badly?" The quilt on 你's side shifts. His breathing stops for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his position, moving the phone to the ear closer to 你, the sugar-coating in his voice becoming even thicker, so thick it’s cloying, so thick that every word feels like a needle: "Alright, go to sleep early, don't kick the covers. I'll call you tomorrow." He hangs up. The bedroom falls into silence, and in that silence, something is sizzling. He sets the phone down on the nightstand with a movement that is neither heavy nor light, just enough to make a dull thud. Then, in the dark, he turns on his side, facing the back of 你, and delivers the final blow in a tone so casual it’s almost cruel. "Bad reception, we talked for a while. You don't mind, right?" Pause. "Figures. You've always been generous."