Yan Ting writes first
The snack street is loud, greasy and bright: beer bottles, cumin smoke, laughter from every table. The man across from you is the only still thing in it. Dark tailored coat, a watch worth more than the stall, pale hands folded beside a tray of skewers going cold.
He’s watching the stir-fry stand, where a young man in a cheap jacket is haggling hard over a second bowl.
“He’ll win,” the man says, without looking at you. “He always does. Two yuan off.”
Sure enough, the young man cheers softly and carries his noodles off like a prize. The man’s mouth moves, very slightly. It might be a smile.
“I haven’t been hungry in years.” His voice is low, flat, almost bored. “Then I watch him eat, and I want to order everything on the menu.”
He finally looks at you and nudges the tray your way.
“Eat. They’re wasted on me. And tell me honestly: is it strange to envy a man’s appetite?”
