Chapter 6

They set the gallery visit for the afternoon, so 孟頔 could get a good night's sleep.
Chen Xian wasn't one to sleep in. At seven sharp, her body clock woke her. She washed up, did her makeup, and went out for breakfast.
How to spend the morning?
Since 孟頔 had joined her, her plans had been thrown off balance, tipping this way and that.
She had breakfast at a nearby café and went over her list. Day three was supposed to be: a day of independent living—"independent" in the broad sense, not the narrow.
Chen Xian had always been independent, at least to others. Kindergarten was close; she walked herself to and from school. In middle school she boarded with a teacher. High school and grad school were dorms. Aside from financial support, she'd barely leaned on her parents. No pep talks or prodding needed. Her studies went smoothly; her temperament was steady. Even the most dramatic teenage years passed quietly.
It also meant that, growing up, she'd always lived communally. Early on, she'd realized that socialization was the path for 99% of people. So she didn't fight it or try to break free. She'd built a near-"perfect" self within society's gaze.
At twenty-five, master's degree in hand, she'd passed the civil service exam on the first try. Once again she was the perfect answer everyone talked about—logical, neat handwriting.
I've thought about a flashier life—Chen Xian hadn't. It wasn't self-defeat. Going off the rails didn't mean freedom. Her freedom was following the rules and occasionally giving herself a yellow light, like this "escape."
What she meant by independent living: spending a whole day alone in one room.
After this break, that was what she'd face. She wanted to try it first.
Before heading back, she navigated to the nearest supermarket and bought vegetables and meat. She'd picked a rental with a kitchen for this.
Cooking wasn't new to her. Those years of sneaking meals with her roommate, she'd done plenty of prep and cooking.
After washing, cutting, and cooking, she put the rice on and checked her phone.
Ten thirty.
At ten sharp, 孟頔 had sent: Good morning.
Chen Xian: Good afternoon. I was just cooking.
Their "morning" clearly didn't match. 孟頔 switched: Good afternoon.
Chen Xian: Sleep well?
孟頔: Very.
Chen Xian wondered if she should invite him. She lifted the lid to check—to avoid waste, she asked: Want to come over? I'm making claypot rice.
孟頔 seemed surprised: Cooking? Yourself?
Chen Xian: Yeah.
She said: You sound shocked.
孟頔: Because mine doesn't have a kitchen.
Chen Xian: Mine does. Coming?
孟頔: Be right there.
His "be right there" was very "right there." So fast that Chen Xian had just stepped into the bathroom to fix her hair when the door knocked. Her hand froze mid-air, then she quickly ducked out of the mirror.
On the way she smoothed her fringe and took a deep breath.
When she opened the door, she was sure she was ready to face the "new" 孟頔.
But he hadn't changed at all. Still that clean look—loose T-shirt and shorts, lean calves showing, thick, fluffy hair. He looked like a "classmate," nothing like an "artist."
He'd brought two cans of fruit beer, clearly just out of the fridge, misted with condensation.
Chen Xian hadn't expected that.
"Hey." Chen Xian greeted him.
孟頔 asked: "Should I take off my shoes?"
Chen Xian: "No need."
They both looked away a little—because of last night's close embrace, and the identity that had slipped out. The jarring note from that harmony carried into now.
Chen Xian led him in: "Come in. Where to sit—" She looked around, flustered for no reason: "Sofa, table, wherever."
孟頔 didn't sit.
Chen Xian, back at the counter, looked at him: "Sit down."
孟頔 said: "It's really bright in here."
Chen Xian: "Isn't yours?" If she wasn't wrong, their layouts and light should be similar.
She remembered that first evening and pointed at the window: "Want me to close the blinds?"
孟頔 shook his head: "No need."
"Because of the heat?"
"No, because…" 孟頔 thought for a few seconds: "Summer sun's too strong."
Chen Xian smiled: "Do you have vampire blood?"
孟頔 played along: "Maybe a little."
Chen Xian walked over and lowered the blinds halfway. The light in the room shifted from clear to gray-white: "Is this better?"
孟頔: "Don't worry about me. I adapt pretty well."
Chen Xian: "But you were frowning just now."
Only then did his face fully relax: "Was I?" He had no idea.
Chen Xian: "Yeah. Just a little. Not obvious."
孟頔 raised his hand and pressed his fingertips to his brow: "Sorry."
Chen Xian comforted: "Artists having little quirks is totally normal."
"Chen Xian." When he was at a loss, he seemed to like saying her name.
Chen Xian "Mm"ed and smiled.
"Don't call me that." 孟頔 smiled and rubbed the back of his neck. He was uncomfortable: "It's weird."
Chen Xian spread her hands: "But I'm not the first. Yesterday's 公众号 called you that too."
孟頔: "But when you say it, it gets weird."
"Why." Now Chen Xian didn't get it.
孟頔's mouth curved: "孟頔's little quirk."
Chen Xian laughed.
"Okay, you win." Turnabout was fair play. She surrendered, wholeheartedly.
…
When the rice was ready, 孟頔 helped Chen Xian carry the pot. She followed, tense, until the cobalt blue cast-iron pot settled safely in the center of the table.
Chen Xian had bought paper cups and bamboo chopsticks because she didn't want to use the rental's shared dishes. She separated them, rinsed them in hot water, and mixed the rice. The rich broth coated every long grain; the cured meat mixed in, fragrant and savory.
Chen Xian filled 孟頔's cup—cup—to the brim and handed it over: "Make do. Looks more casual than a street stall."
孟頔 took it and opened both beers: "Smells amazing."
He pushed one toward Chen Xian.
Chen Xian took a quick sip: "Wow, ice-cold hits different."
She looked up. 孟頔's hand had stopped mid-air, the beer still in it. He was looking at her. Everything was in that look.
Chen Xian got it and laughed. She raised her can and clinked it against his: "Cheers."
Only then did he seem satisfied. He took a sip.
When he actually started eating, Chen Xian watched his face carefully. Once she was sure he was fine, she asked: "Is it good?"
孟頔: "Really good."
Chen Xian took a bite: "Yeah, not bad."
Disposable chopsticks, disposable cups, disposable beer, a disposable lunch. But because they shared it, "disposable" became "just this once"—precious and meaningful.
They chatted now and then and slowly finished the whole pot.
Chen Xian was stuffed. She slumped in her chair: "Have you ever lived alone?"
孟頔 looked at her: "I've always lived alone."
Chen Xian: "Since when?"
孟頔: "After I went abroad."
Chen Xian remembered the Repin Academy in his profile: "Russia?"
孟頔: "Yeah."
"Did you see any bears?" Her face lit up.
孟頔 smiled: "I didn't."
Chen Xian: "That's a shame."
"You can see them at the zoo."
"But not the kind that walk past your window."
孟頔 watched her steadily. Right then, Chen Xian was like a princess full of whimsy, living in a cloud-piercing castle, idly combing her long hair.
Chen Xian looked down: "I've barely ever lived alone."
孟頔: "Isn't it good to always have company?"
Chen Xian: "It is, but I can't relax."
"Not even at home?"
"No."
孟頔: "Are you relaxed now?"
Chen Xian was honest: "No. I want to wash the pot right away. We're going out this afternoon."
孟頔 checked his phone, then looked at the sofa: "Go sit on the sofa for a bit."
Chen Xian scratched her head: "Now that you mention it, I really want to do the dishes." The messy table looked like a face with twisted features, baring its teeth at her. She just wanted to put everything back in its place.
孟頔: "I'll do them in a bit."
Chen Xian: "You sure?"
孟頔 stared at her, as if he took issue with the question.
"I'm sure," he said firmly.
He added: "You haven't stopped since I got here."
Chen Xian hadn't realized: "Really?"
"Yeah," 孟頔's look was certain: "Take a break."
Under the boy's calm "spell," Chen Xian grabbed the remaining half-can of beer and sank into the sofa.
孟頔 sat down too, not too close, not too far—about a cushion's distance away.
Chen Xian sipped the fruity beer and turned: "Just sitting?"
孟頔 noticed the plastic bag on the coffee table. Inside were fresh lotus seeds, green and tender, small and round. He asked where they came from.
Chen Xian: "I bought them on my way back this morning."
She grabbed a few for him to try.
孟頔 peeled one and gave it to her, then peeled one for himself. The shells stayed in his hand.
Chen Xian: "Just put them on the table."
孟頔 sat up and looked for the trash. It was nearby, on the other side of the coffee table.
He tossed the shells in an arc, like a shot—swish.
Chen Xian laughed, hopeless: "Guys really are all the same!"
孟頔 gave her a look: "Try it."
Chen Xian leaned back lazily and threw. Missed. She let out a disappointed "ah."
孟頔 went again. Still accurate. Three points.
Chen Xian wasn't having it. She sat up straight, rolling up her sleeves.
The competition was on.
They went through more than half the bag. The floor became a "starry sky of lotus seed shells."
Later they forgot to keep score, too caught up in the game they'd started on a whim. When it was time, 孟頔 got up to do the dishes. Chen Xian cleaned up the mess. After gathering all the "failures" from the floor into the trash, she suddenly realized the whole afternoon had been wasted. She turned to look at his back at the sink and almost said: "I just spent a whole afternoon throwing lotus seed shells with you." In the end she didn't. She just looked down and laughed for a long time.