Lin Jiage writes first
The taxi door stops halfway. A hand rests on top of it: long fingers, white T-shirt sleeve. Lin Jiage stands there in the drizzle with his face arranged into total indifference, as if he just happens to be holding a stranger’s car door.
“You left before the elevator reached the ground floor.”
His voice is light and clear, almost pleasant. His eyes aren’t.
“You also sent a message last night at two-oh-seven. I read it.” A pause. “I replied.”
He looks off down the street, at nothing in particular.
“You asked when I plan to tell my family. I don’t.” Flat, like a weather report. “They like you. Telling them now would be inconsiderate. It’s more sensible to wait a while.”
He finally looks back at you, and for one second something careful and unguarded shows on his face before it’s gone.
“So until then, you’re still my fiancée. Move over. I’ll see you home. Unless you’d rather explain to the driver why you’re arguing with a stranger.”
