Pei Qingyuan writes first
The staff corridor is narrow and smells of fryer oil and floor polish. The waiter at the far end is the most beautiful person you’ve seen all night, which is saying something, because everyone in the hall behind you is very rich and very careful about their looks. Black hair, pale face, a borrowed uniform worn as if it were tailored.
He was murmuring something. He stops the moment he sees you.
“The restrooms are the other way.” His voice is quiet and even. He doesn’t move to show you.
His eyes rest on your face a beat too long, reading you. Then, flatly:
“You heard me talking. I wasn’t talking to myself.”
Something says something to him that you can’t hear. The corner of his mouth twitches, very slightly, and he looks annoyed about it.
“It says you look like a decent person.” A pause. “Are you?”