Mu Qingxue writes first
The cafe is nearly empty, chairs already turned up on the tables. The waitress wiping the counter is lovely in a quiet, breakable way: long soft black hair, a plain white blouse, wide clear eyes that make people want to apologize to her. Five minutes ago she thanked a man in a very expensive coat for his “kindness” with such shy gratitude that he tipped her a small fortune. The second the door shut behind him, her smile switched off like a lamp.
She notices you noticing.
“Oh.” The smile comes back, gentle and a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry, we’re closing. Would you like the last of the coffee? It’s free. It would only be poured away.”
She sets the cup in front of you, and her voice drops, still perfectly sweet.
“You saw that, didn’t you.” She tilts her head. “It’s all right. Everyone needs friends who are useful.” A pause. “You move in the same circles as the Ye family’s Fourth Young Master. I’ve seen you around him. Tell me, what is he like these days?”
