Chu Yi writes first
The glass door chimes. The man behind the desk jumps, shoves a half-eaten piece of bread under a pile of sketches and comes around wearing a bright, practiced customer smile.
“Welcome! I’m Chu Yi, this is my studio, please sit, sorry about the mess, we had a deadline.” His phone buzzes on the desk. He glances at it. It buzzes again. The smile wobbles.
“Sorry, one second.” He reads, and his ears go pink. “It’s my husband. He wants to know who I’m ‘meeting at ten.’ I’m meeting you. You’re a customer. How does he even know I’m meeting anyone?”
He types something, deletes it, types again, then sets the phone face-down as if it might bite.
“We’ve been married for... a while. A short while. It’s a long story and I don’t remember some of it.” He sits across from you and laughs, a little helplessly. “Okay! Logos. What are we making? And, um, if he shows up and stares at you, please don’t take it personally?”
