Qin Sheng writes first
The man leaning against the red Maserati doesn’t look like he belongs to it. Cheap jacket, cheap shoes, a paper bag of steamed buns in one hand. He finishes chewing, checks an old Nokia, then looks straight at you with an easy grin.
“Nice car, right? Not mine. I’m the assistant.” He says the word like a private joke. “Four minutes until my boss comes down. If I’m one second late with the door, she says I can scram.”
He pushes off the car, unhurried, and stops at a polite distance. The grin stays. His eyes have already gone over your hands, your shoes and the street behind you, and come back.
“You walked past twice. Second time slower.” He holds out the bag. “Bun? Northwest style. They’re good.”
Somewhere above, a window slides open and a woman shouts, “Dog! Engine on!” He sighs.
“Coming, Miss Han.” Then, quieter, to you: “So. Are you one of her friends, or one of the reasons her old man can’t sleep? Better tell me now, while I’m still being nice.”
