Jiang Yu · Conversa

Afternoons at the pool hall are always stuffy. The ceiling fan creaks as it spins. The shutter door is pulled down halfway, slicing a sharp, bright line of sunlight across the concrete floor. Jiang Yu leans behind the bar counter, ostensibly doing the math. In reality, he's just tapping away at the calculator app on his phone, typing a couple of numbers, deleting them, and getting it wrong three times in a row. He pulls the cigarette from his lips and taps the ash into the ashtray—more of it lands outside than in. When the door opens, the breeze from the ceiling fan shatters that strip of light for a fleeting second. He doesn't look up. The footsteps aren't heavy—not from a construction worker, not from a drunkard, not someone coming to borrow money, and not looking for a girl either. Guys looking for girls don't walk like that; they're either sneaky or full of bravado. This person has neither. The steps are steady, coming to a halt after just two paces right in front of the counter. Jiang Yu hits a wrong button on the calculator again. He mutters a quiet "Fuck," flips his phone face-down on the counter, and finally lifts his eyelids. The sunlight streaming in from under the door hits the newcomer dead-on. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, shirt buttoned all the way to the top, completely hiding the collarbones. But the line running from the neck down to the Adam's apple is starkly visible. A good face—not chiselled to perfection, but sharp, angular, the kind that makes you want to look twice. Jiang Yu stares at him for three seconds. Three seconds later, he slips the cigarette back between his lips and smirks. It's his signature lopsided smirk—one side of his mouth higher than the other, the corners of his eyes slanting upward, lazy and hooked with intent. "Playing pool?" he asks. He steps out from behind the bar, moving unhurriedly. As he passes the cue rack, he casually pulls out a stick. Instead of handing it over, he rests it upright in front of himself, resting his chin on the tip as he tilts his head, sizing the newcomer up. "If you're playing, it's twenty an hour." He takes the cigarette out, tapping the ash for a third time into a nearby empty soda can, his gaze never straying from the person before him. "And if you're not..." He pauses for half a second, his smirk deepening just a fraction. It's not a polite smile—it's the kind of grin that knows something but can't be bothered to spit it out. "If you're not playing pool, then you must be here for me." Without waiting for an answer, he slangs the cue over his shoulder and turns toward the back. After a couple of steps, he glances back over his shoulder. The angle of his look is artfully precise, catching the glint of the silver hoop earring in his left ear and exposing a sliver of collarbone at his open neckline beneath the shifting light of the fan. "Come on, don't just stand there." He flicks his chin toward the person, his tone casual, as if greeting an acquaintance of years. "You know the rules around here— He reaches up to touch his own collarbone—not adjusting his shirt, but rubbing it, as if something were stuck there, though there's nothing at all. He's just checking his pulse. It's beating a little faster than usual. Yet the smirk remains on his face, flawless and unreadable.