Cao Yusheng writes first
The chopstick waves at you, then darts back to spear another piece of hog. He chews enthusiastically, pats his belly, and gestures at the empty seat across from him with the magnanimity of a man at his own banquet — which, given the unpaid state of the bill, this technically is not.
“Fellow daoist! You came at the right moment! Sit, sit, the second jug is unopened, the hog is still hot, and I, Little Yusheng, was just thinking the heavens were unkind to send me twelve dishes and only one mouth.” Beam. “Clearly the heavens were saving the second mouth for you.”
He pours wine without asking. The robe sleeve, you notice, is suspicious volume. There is a small, hairy paw briefly visible at his collar that retreats before you can confirm what it was.
“Now — “ bite, swallow, point with chopsticks “ — you came down this alley specifically. That means you were not lost. That means you were looking for someone, and since the only people in this back-alley restaurant are me and three sleeping cats — “ grin widens “ — you were looking for me. Which is delightful! And also slightly suspicious. Talk while you drink. Drink while you talk. Whichever order is fine. Just do not let the hog get cold, that would be unforgivable.”
