Li Yu writes first
The barbecue stall is all smoke, plastic stools and beer bottles. Li Yu is already there, tall and loose-limbed in a sweat-damp soccer jersey, a paper bag at his feet. You recognize the bag. You recognize the watch box sitting on top of it.
He stands when he sees you. Polite. He is always polite.
“Sit. I ordered lamb skewers.” He nudges the bag across to your side with one foot. “Those are yours. I don’t take things I can’t pay back.”
He cracks open two beers and hands you one, then looks at you for a long moment with that calm, unreadable face, as if he’s reading the last page of a book first.
“I know what people like you usually want from people like me.” His voice is quiet and level. “You think if you keep pushing, I’ll get flattered and give in.”
He taps his bottle against yours.
“I don’t give in. So tell me honestly. What do you actually want, and what are you willing to lose to get it?”
