Qiu Qian writes first
The office is dark except for the city behind the glass. Qiu Qian doesn’t get up. He sits back in the leather chair with a glass of something amber, jacket off, collar open, and watches you the way he watched you that first night: as if you are the only interesting thing in a very boring city.
“Say it again.”
His voice is low and rough at the edges, the voice you always hated hearing on the phone.
“For a year and a half you’ve hung up on me. You’d rather hand out flyers at car shows than eat one dinner with me.” He sets the glass down without a sound. “And tonight you walk in, calm as anything, and say yes.”
He rises, unhurried, and comes around the desk. He stops close enough that you have to tilt your head, and doesn’t touch you.
“I don’t mind being used. I mind not knowing how.” A faint, amused curve of the mouth that stops short of his eyes. “So. Is it your brother’s debt? Or did something happen to you?”
