“The one where you were introducing all the items in your purse.” He mimics me, holding up an invisible bag and retrieving an invisible object out of it. “?‘I always like to carry a spare necklace or set of earrings in my purse, you know, just in case I’m in a hurry to leave in the morning. I can’t have zero accessories on, or else, like, I literally feel naked.’?” He’s teasing, but there’s no real mockery in his expression, and thatdoessound like something I would say. It could even be a word-for-word reenactment of my interview, though I have no idea how he’s managed to remember all of it.
“That interview was from years ago. How did you even manage to find it anyway?” I lean forward, resting my chin on both my hands. “Have you been googling me?”
He shrugs, shameless, not even bothering to deny it. “You’re a public figure.”
I don’t know whether to be flattered or embarrassed by the thought of him deep-diving into every digital version of myself floating around on the internet. But it’s proof that he’s been thinking about me. That he’s curious about me.
He goes on, “?‘There’s this one necklace from a newly opened store in Shanghai that I just adore. I believe the brand’s called JQ Jewelry, and all the necklaces are tailored according to your name and Chinese zodiac sign. I wear mine, like, all the time....’?” He drops his admittedly convincing impression of my voice. “Is that even true? Because I’ve never seen you wear a necklace like that before.”
“No,” I say with a snort. “My friend’s family owns the brand, and she asked me to help them promote it in the video.”
“So you lied.” He doesn’t sound like he’s judging me, more like he’s simply trying to understand my thought process.
“A white lie—barely even that,” I reason. “A mild, harmless exaggeration, done only for the sake of friendship, and who doesn’t love friendship? Well, I mean, maybe you don’t.”
He blinks, then huffs out a low sound of laughter. “Did you just imply that I don’t have friends?”
“Doyou have friends?”
“Your concern about my social life is touching.”
“I’m just looking out for you.”
His attention sharpens on me. “Why?”
I don’t have a good answer for that, not without revealing the truth, so I play coy, lowering my chin and gazing up at him from under my lashes. “Why do you think?”
A cloud above us shifts, and a perfect slant of moonlight pools over his skin, lining the slope of his lips, the curve of those long, oil-black lashes. Time seems to slow, and I swear I can see the interplay of emotions on his face like light and shadow: suspicion, doubt, fascination, frustration. Then he breaks eyecontact, pointing to the QR code printed above the posters. “Let’s order first. I’m getting hungry.”
After we add our items to the cart—twenty lamb skewers for him, with extra spice: two lamb skewers, two quail egg skewers, and two mushroom skewers for me, no spice and reduced salt—Ares gestures to his phone. “I’ll pay,” he says.
This is what I was hoping for, not because I care about the twenty-two-yuan skewers, but because it gives me the perfect excuse to protest, “No, no, I should get it. I was the one who introduced you to this place. It’s only fair.”
He shrugs, finishes scanning the QR code, stuffs his phone back into his pocket. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I insist. “What’s your WeChat?”
The most subtle of looks passes over his face, a kind of awareness, or amusement, maybe. I don’t like it. It makes me feel entirely too transparent, like I’m standing on a stage and telling a joke when he’s already read the punchline. “You want my WeChat?”
I’ve noticed him doing this. Always asking me questions that begin with “Do you want to?” or “Do you think?” without revealing anything about his own thoughts, whathewants. “Are you going to give it to me?” I ask, offering him a faint smile, suggestive but subdued.
“Depends how badly you want it.”
“I do,” I say. “I very badly want to pay you back. I hate owing people money.”
That look again, this time paired with the tilt of his head. He considers me for a few seconds. “And how often do you ask guys for their WeChat?”
“Basically never. They’re always the ones asking me,” I say, more sulkily than I’d planned.
He studies me a moment longer, then reaches for his phone again, holding it out for me to scan.
Progress. At last.
I try not to look too excited as I add him. He accepts my friend request right away, and I click into his profile—only for disappointment to sink through me. Typically, just one cursory glance at someone’s latest WeChat moments can tell you more about them than five in-depth interviews. Blurry pictures of a rave or a shirtless gym selfie or a caption about theirlife-altering tripto Bali? Basic fuckboy material. Well-lit photos of homemade egg-and-tomatoes or the natural scenery from deep in the mountains? More advanced fuckboy material. Glamorous shots of their silhouette against a hotel window or golf clubs or race cars? Rich fuckboy material.
But I have no idea what kind of material Ares Yin is.
His profile picture is a pure white square. His bio has been left totally blank, which I didn’t even realize was something you could do. His Moments are visible for up to six months, but that’s because he hasn’t posted anything at all. Even hisnameis simply “Ares Yin.” No creative capitalization or punctuation.
