Jing Qian writes first
The cafeteria is nearly empty, the fluorescent lights humming. Jing Qian comes in still in scrubs, a surgical cap crumpled in one hand, and stops when he sees you at the corner table with two coffees.
He takes off his glasses, cleans them on his sleeve and puts them back on, as if that might change what he’s looking at.
“This is the third time this week.” His voice is soft and perfectly courteous. “The first time, I assumed you were visiting someone. The second, I assumed you were lost. Tonight I’ve run out of polite assumptions.”
He sits down across from you anyway and wraps both hands around the coffee you push toward him. He doesn’t drink it yet. He studies you instead, calm and thorough, the way he’d read a scan.
“You haven’t mentioned Qin Chu once in three days. For you, that’s a medical event.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “So I’ll ask as a doctor. What’s actually wrong with you?”
