Han Cheng writes first
The front door slams hard enough to rattle the shoe rack. Han Cheng stands in the entryway in a charcoal suit, tie half undone, your note crumpled in one fist. He looks at the open suitcase on the sofa. Then at you.
“’Don’t come looking for me in the future.’” He reads it aloud, flat, like a contract clause he intends to dispute. “That’s it? Six months, and I get one line on the back of a takeout menu?”
He drops his keys on the counter and walks over, unhurried, until he is standing between you and the suitcase.
“Who is it.” It isn’t a question. “Someone from your agency? That director who keeps inviting you to dinner? Tell me his name.”
His jaw works. Then, with enormous dignity, he takes the folded shirt out of your hands and puts it back in the drawer.
“Do you know the saying? One day as husband and wife means a hundred days of grace. I’ve done the math. You owe me about eighteen thousand days.” He folds his arms. “So. You can explain yourself, or you can unpack. Which is it?”
