二〇十六年
十月
It begins when a man Zhangjing doesn’t recognize shows up at the café.
Zhangjing has barely voiced the requisite “Welcome, please come in” before the man does a grand sweep and drops one knee on the floor. The man looks completely at ease even though his knee looks like they’re digging through the fashionable rips on his jeans into the scratchy wood floor.
With the juncture of bright daylight and window-frame shadow, the man’s cheekbones look almost ethereal. Zhangjing thinks he can be excused for his delayed reaction when the man says, formally, “Will you marry me?”
First of all, what?
Second of all, is that a ring!?
The next thing Zhangjing knows is his coworker, one Chen Linong, poking his arm with zero subtlety. “Zhangjing-gege, I think he’s looking for you?”
The man comments, “What a beautiful and fitting name.”
“Did you not even know my name,” Zhangjing says. Despair permeates his voice and his body.
Zhangjing has a creeping realization that all sixteen of the café’s customers must be staring by now. Stuttering along on autopilot, he asks, “Would you like to order anything?”
“You,” the man says with gravity.
Zhangjing puts his face in his hands.
“Please come back in four hours!” Linong cheerfully quips.
“Thank you”, the man says formally.
After the man leaves, Zhangjing manages to schedule Linong on cleaning duty for the rest of the week. Linong doesn’t even protest, since he’s unsubtly volunteered himself to do closing so he can spectate.
Four hours later, Zhangjing pointedly ignores Linong sweeping in the background as he sits at a cozy couple’s table. Across from him is the man, who has introduced himself as Lin Yanjun, looking far too suave for how awkward Zhangjing is feeling.
“We met last night,” Lin Yanjun says. “I tried to get your Line but you thought I was asking you to dance. Fortunately for me your friends mentioned you worked here.”
As it happens, Zhangjing did go partying last night with a group of friends that he is demoting to ex-friends as of right now. And as it happens, he did end up at karaoke with said ex-friends, extremely tipsy and belting Sun Yanzi’s greatest hits at 1 am to complete strangers.
“That’s when I knew you were the man I had to marry,” Lin Yanjun explains, hands earnestly clasped on top of the fake-vintage wood table.
Zhangjing makes an incoherent noise of protest. “We don’t know each other at all!”
“Love knows no boundaries!” Linong shouts from the coffee bar.
“Nongnong you’re a child!” Zhangjing retorts.
He turns back to Lin Yanjun. “I’m really flattered,” Zhangjing says. With those striking cheekbones it’s not even a lie. “But don’t you think a marriage proposal is a bit too fast?”
“I’ve been told my beauty has changed minds in an instant,” Lin Yanjun says with a completely straight face.
After today, Zhangjing thinks his face might as well be buried permanently in his hands.
Even though Zhangjing’s shifts are at different times of day every day, Lin Yanjun manages to drop by several times that week exactly when Zhangjing is working. Zhangjing suspects that Linong has gotten the café’s owner, who is his auntie of some sort, in on his outlandish plans.
Whenever Lin Yanjun visits, he always takes a table close to the bar and ostensibly sets up to study. Sometimes Zhangjing catches him leaning on an elbow and gazing intently in Zhangjing’s direction. Now and then Zhangjing stops by to ask if he needs anything and Lin Yanjun keeps replying with increasingly ridiculous compliments. On occasion Lin Yanjun makes a witty whisper about a fellow customer, and every time Zhangjing laughs so hard he has to clutch the table.
The whole thing, from proposal to daily in-house admirer, has brought Zhangjing endless teasing among his coworkers. The one saving grace of this whole tragicomedy is that Zhangjing and Lin Yanjun’s universities are a whole half-hour away from each other by foot or bus. The café is even further, and Lin Yanjun can’t ride bicycles at all.
“How is he from Tainan and unable to ride a bike,” Linong mutters when he learns this. “How is he supposed to woo you with a bike ride along Xindian River if he can’t ride a bike!”
Zhangjing rolls his eyes. “Don’t you have homework to do,” Zhangjing says, pointing at the stack of notebooks and textbooks in front of Linong.
“True love is more important,” Linong replies with faux solemnity.
“You’ve been watching too many dramas,” Zhangjing says. He tosses a clean rag in Linong’s direction.
Linong turns around and barely catches the rag against his chest. “I only watch one drama a season,” he sputters. “You watch ten a season! In multiple languages!”
“I do not watch ten a season,” Zhangjing says, unable to refute the rest of that statement.
Linong drops the rag onto his lap. “This is the meet-cute you’ve been waiting your life for! Didn’t you say you wanted to meet someone and marry them for the spousal visa?”
Zhangjing mashes his forehead against a cupboard door. “First of all, that was a joke, and second of all, still waiting for the Taiwanese government to legislate anything.”
Linong tsks in annoyed agreement. “Idiot old people,” he says. “Well, I’m sure there are some lonely divorcées out there. I’ve heard lots of things about the Chuanmei Corporation family.”
Zhangjing turns against the cupboard door so he can glare at Linong. Seeing Linong’s mock wide-eyed consideration, he says, “I’ll take stalker with the cheekbones, thanks.”
Linong pumps his fist in victory. “See! I knew you’d agree with me.”
The next day, Friday, Lin Yanjun comes by holding a golden paper tote. The name printed on it is that of a pricey shop recently opened by an international award-winning pastry chef. Zhangjing has thought of going, but he doesn’t have the time to line up for an entire hour for fancy bread.
“Thank you,” Zhangjing says politely, “but I can’t possibly take this.”
“No thanks needed. A stunning voice like yours deserves every laudatory gift,” Lin Yanjun says. “Speaking of your beautiful voice: do you want to go to karaoke with me and some friends tonight?”
Zhangjing doesn’t remember Lin Yanjun’s friends or if Lin Yanjun thinks karaoke rooms are actually make-out spots. He eyes the pastries regretfully. “I’m busy,” he says.
“That’s fine,” Lin Yanjun replies immediately, but his face is so serious that Zhangjing can’t tell how really feels about it.
“You should still enjoy this,” Lin Yanjun adds, softly placing the bag of pastries on the counter. He leaves the café without ever taking a seat.
Zhangjing spends the rest of his shift wishing to hear one of the man’s silly one-liners. During his lunch break he hides in the back and eats two pastries, and he can’t contain himself because they’re just as amazing as everyone says.
It is early enough on Saturday morning that Zhangjing thinks he is hallucinating his regrets when he sees Lin Yanjun hovering and peeking in through the window.
Zhangjing isn’t sure if the man’s presence is a good or bad thing, but he unlocks the door anyway. “The café opens at 10.”
“I brought shaobing youtiao,” Lin Yanjun says.
At the mention of one of his favourite foods, Zhangjing instantly goes from bleary to bright. He practically yanks the small steaming plastic bag from the man’s hands and opens it up take a large crisp bite of hot and fresh youtiao right there on the doorstep of the café.
“Is it good?” Lin Yanjun asks. Zhangjing is too busy eating so he just nods emphatically. “I’m glad you like it,” Yanjun says. “I wasn’t sure if I ran from the market fast enough to keep these hot.”
“Hn nn nn” (It’s really good), Zhangjing intones with enthusiasm while his cheeks are still stuffed with food.
Zhangjing scarfs down the shaobing youtiao in a record minute-and-a-half in between sips of plain doujiang. “Get the sweet one next time,” Zhangjing says, with a little shake of the doujiang cup.
“So I can keep doing this?” Yanjun says, and it’s the first time Zhangjing sees anything like hesitance in his eyes. Zhangjing can’t help but soften.
“Of course,” Zhangjing says, softly. Then he blinks as he realizes the gastronomic fortune that’s been bestowed upon him. “But you have to bring me the best food every time you come!”
十一月
The school term picks up for them both, but Yanjun’s visits continue. Zhangjing absorbs Yanjun’s habits like osmosis; how he orders a coffee if he’s dropping by or a pot of tea if he’s staying. With Zhangjing’s explicit approval to visit now, Yanjun has stopped hiding behind his flimsy excuse of studying and started shamelessly proclaiming that he is there for Zhangjing whenever asked—to Linong, other staff, the owner, and one memorable time, to a girl who tried to ask him out.
(Zhangjing gave Yanjun a free scone for how hilarious that scene was. It wasn’t because Zhangjing had been the slightest bit jealous, of course not.)
In fact, without the excuse, Zhangjing doesn’t think he’s seen Yanjun with a notebook or textbook more than once.
“Don’t you need to study for midterms?” Zhangjing asks even as he’s peering into the paper bag of chelun bing Yanjun brought today. He fishes out one he thinks might be dousha-flavoured and passes it back to Yanjun.
“Beauty is effortless,” Yanjun replies airily, taking one out for himself.
Zhangjing tries to stifle his amusement into a large bite of chelun bing—it’s indeed dousha—and pretends to shake his head. It’s enough for Yanjun to break character and start laughing too.
On Saturdays, Yanjun comes by before the café opens. He always brings a plastic bag with one sweet doujiang for Zhangjing, one salty doujiang for himself, and shaobing yaotiao for both of them. In the quiet morning light of the café they exchange jokes and little anecdotes about their lives, until the sun starts shining in earnest and the late brunch rush starts.
Yanjun’s visits are so much better than lonely hours spent doing homework behind the coffee bar. But there’s always interruptions from customers (legitimate customers, not just girls trying to score a date with Yanjun) and, after Saturday morning classes let out, a certain annoying brat. So one Tuesday when he and Yanjun are chatting on opposite sides of the bar, Zhangjing nervously asks, “Do you want to go anywhere this weekend?”
He can hear Linong yelling about them going on a date in the back.
Yanjun doesn’t even react to Linong, instead, leaning into the bar and into Zhangjing’s space. “Every date in my calendar is a date with you.”
Zhangjing collapses into Yanjun’s shoulder in laughter. “That was terrible!”
Yanjun loses his composure and starts laughing too. When they’ve both stopped setting each other off in fits of giggles, Yanjun says, “Have you been to Tainan?”
“No, I haven’t really been further than Taoyuan airport,” Zhangjing says.
“What, really,” Yanjun says, looking theatrically surprised. He smiles. “Now absolutely I have to show you around the entire island.”
“You don’t have—”
“Nope,” Yanjun says, “I absolutely have to.”
In between schoolwork and actual work, however, neither of them have the time to travel much further than Keelung. Yanjun does suggest going to Houtong to see the stray cats, but eventually his civic pride wins out and they decide on a Tainan restaurant chain with a store on Yongkang Street near Yanjun’s campus.
The Saturday of their date, Zhangjing tries to dress up nicely even though he has a whole morning shift to cover. Yanjun doesn’t bring breakfast, instead coming later and waiting for Zhangjing’s shift to end. From the café, they walk to the restaurant together, ambling along alleyways lazy and comfortable amongst the last throes of summer warmth. Along the way, the buildings ease from brick-tile dormitories to low-rise apartments with splashes of bright leaves and tiny flowers spilling from metal grates and over concrete balconies. They weave through mopeds and bicycles and Yanjun tugs at his arm occasionally as a signal to dodge into parked cars to let a car pass by.
The restaurant is bustling, but the two of them manage to get a quiet corner table on the second floor. The place isn’t fancy or pretentious, but it has an eloquence with its modern take on traditional, homey decor; as soon as they settle in Zhangjing is admiring the ceramics decorated with bold calligraphy mounted on the wall.
“What do you want to order?” Yanjun asks, and suddenly, when Zhangjing turns back to him, he’s struck by how much Yanjun’s strong features fits amongst the striking art.
Zhangjing tries to crack a joke to recover. “I want everything but I can’t eat everything,” he says. He even tries for puppy eyes, which is terrible because he’s supposed to be a twenty-two-year-old adult, but it makes Yanjun’s eyes crinkle with delight.
“I’ll have to order all of my favourites then,” Yanjun says.
They end up with ten dishes between the two of them, but Zhangjing can’t complain in between eating the crispy zha doufu and slurping up the signature danzai mian. The latter is delicately small and Zhangjing is tempted to order more bowls to make up for it, but as soon he has two bites, he’s interrupted by Yanjun.
“Try this,” Yanjun says, carefully holding up a ball of fried oyster in front of Zhangjing. Zhangjing thoughtlessly moves forward and takes the whole thing into his mouth.
Only a split second later does Zhangjing realize how coupley the act was. He starts to lean back as embarrassment seeping into his cheeks. Yanjun starts looking like there might be uncertainty in his eyes, so Zhangjing makes himself still and lean back in.
Zhangjing closes his eyes as he lets the oyster dissolve in his mouth.
“Good?” Yanjun asks. His chopsticks have been replaced by his face, and his eyes are barely ten centimetres from Zhangjing’s.
“Yeah,” Zhangjing whispers.
Yanjun gives him a rogue-ish grin, and suddenly, they’re back to exchanging jokes while eating through dishes.
“So you’re in your second year of university? I thought you were older,” Zhangjing says.
“I’m an 84er,” Yanjun says.
“84?” Zhangjing asks, even as he’s trying to do the conversion from Minguo to Gregorian in his head.
“Twenty-one,” Yanjun tells him. “I did my military service first.”
Most of Zhangjing’s friends here are fellow Chinese diaspora students from Southeast Asia, so he isn’t too clear on the details, but he asks, “I thought you only have to do a few weeks after senior high?”
Yanjun shrugs and looks down at his plate. “I didn’t really know what I wanted to do, so I thought I’d just get my service out of the way.” They’re both silent for a moment, as Yanjun fiddles with a slice of xiangchang on his plate and Zhangjing waits.
“I know it’s what I’m supposed to do,” Yanjun says, “but I didn’t want to waste my dad’s money on a degree I didn’t even want.”
“That’s a mature outlook,” Zhangjing says. “Your parents should appreciate that,” and he hates his words because it’s so rote.
Yanjun laughs, and it’s easy and settled. “I wouldn’t say so,” he says. “But they’re okay with it.”
“So did you end up studying in your dream program?” Zhangjing asks.
“I guess,” Yanjun says with a shrug, but he’s smiling and Zhangjing thinks Yanjun does look like he is living his dream. “What about you?” Yanjun asks. “Did you always want to study business?”
“Yeah, of course,” Zhangjing replies. It’s their first date, so he doesn’t say more.
Discussing majors turns into discussing worst class schedules and commutes. Zhangjing finds out that Yanjun lives for free within walking distance of his university because he is house-sitting for a rich relative with an apartment that would otherwise be a mosquito emporium, when Zhangjing commutes all the way in from Yonghe.
“I feel betrayed,” Zhangjing says, clutching his heart.
Yanjun smirks. “You could always come over.” The accompanying wink is so ridiculously overdone and Zhangjing knows Yanjun doesn’t mean his innuendo seriously.
Zhangjing barely notices when Yanjun signals for the bill, but he does notice the waiter approaching with a mini-clipboard with said bill, and he manages to grab it as soon as it’s placed on the table a split second before Yanjun does.
“But I invited you out,” Yanjun says.
“It was my idea,” Zhangjing replies.
“But you’re a guest eating my hometown’s food,” Yanjun says.
Zhangjing gives him a look. “We’re in Taipei.”
“You’re in my stomping grounds,” Yanjun says, gesturing palm out to the entire restaurant as if he’s a Tang dynasty noble.
Yanjun wins, because honestly Zhangjing wasn’t trying very hard and he can always shower Yanjun with free food at the café.
They make their way downstairs and out of the restaurant, joining the flow of the weekend and tourist crowd. It’s not long before they come across a giant Rilakkuma in a storefront.
“What is that,” Yanjun says.
“Wah," Zhangjing exclaims, grabbing on to Yanjun. “We have to go in.”
It isn’t until they’re in the shop that Zhangjing realizes he’s holding on to Yanjun’s hand, in a shop full of couples with girls acting cute and clingy with their boyfriends, that he realizes his mistake.
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly as he tries to let go of Yanjun’s hand.
Yanjun, though, only tightens his grip in response, and casually leans in to point at a stuffed mascot. “Do you know the name of that thing?”
“Yes,” Zhangjing says, trying for just as casual even though he’s utterly aware of every one of Yanjun’s fingers he’s touching. “It’s a white blog with a tail.”
“I’m going to call it Foam,” Yanjun declares.
Zhangjing turns to Yanjun in bafflement. “Foam?”
“So I can find a brown one and call it Milk Tea,” Yanjun continues, sounding completely serious.
Zhangjing swats at Yanjun’s arm. “That’s not even funny,” he says through giggles.
Yanjun grins. “You’re laughing though.”
They end up leaving the store with the plush toy.
十二月
They make it down to Tainan for winter break, after Zhangjing talks his parents into waiting until the Lunar New Year to see him and Yanjun out of paying for his high-speed rail ticket.
Yanjun insists on setting out early to avoid the crowd. Zhangjing is so worried about sleeping in he finds himself at Taipei Main Station a full thirty minutes before their agreed meeting time. He pulls out his phone and opens LINE, which is still showing his chat with Yanjun full of go-to-sleep sticker spam from 10 pm last night.
Where are you, Zhangjing texts Yanjun.
Buying breakfast! comes the reply, along with a sticker of a rushing rabbit.
Yanjun shows up from the direction of the restaurant area running precariously laden with plastic bags.
“I didn’t think you’d be so early,” Yanjun says. He leans over to catch his breath, and holds out one of the bags. “I bought some railway biandang so we can have the archetypal Taiwan Railway experience.”
“The high-speed rail isn’t Taiwan Railways,” Zhangjing says as he takes the proffered bag.
“Shh,” Yanjun replies.
The bag smells good and Zhangjing hasn’t had any breakfast. He peeks inside and sees two typical flat takeout boxes stacked on top of each other, each held together by a rubber band at opposite corners and decorated with forgettably cute illustrations.
Yanjun drags him away from examining the food and down to the HSR platform. At this time it’s full of seniors and a few young families, and they join one of the platform queues. Ten minutes or so later, they’re boarding the train and finding their seats.
The other plastic bag turns out to be a stash of drinks and pastries from FamilyMart. Yanjun lets Zhangjing have first pick of the biandang and drinks, but Zhangjing knows the fruit tea and the pork rice were for him anyway. Yanjun has an oolong tea and the chicken rice. Being the embarrassing man he is, Yanjun keeps trying to feed him bites of chicken and Zhangjing has to lightly kick him under the table several times before he gives up.
As soon as they finish breakfast, Yanjun is falling asleep on his shoulder, leaving Zhangjing to stare at the monotonous faded green of the passing countryside. He thinks they’re somewhere in Miaoli. He falls asleep by Taichung.
Nearly two hours later, he’s shaken awake by Yanjun. “What time is it?” he asks.
“We’re almost there,” Yanjun says softly. With a teasing lilt, he adds, “You look like a cherub sleeping.”
Outside Tainan is warmer than he expected, and Zhangjing ends up carrying his winter coat as they’re greeted by a middle-aged woman in purple jacket. “Hi gugu,” Yanjun says, giving her a hug.
“Hello Lin-ǎyí,” Zhangjing says, handing over a box of pricey oolong that the café owner had recommended.
“Oh I couldn’t possibly take this,” the aunt says.
“I insist,” Zhangjing says, pushing it directly on top of her hands. Somehow, while he’s doing this, Yanjun steals his luggage, so Zhangjing awkwardly has nothing on his hands while the three of them are walk through the enormous parking lot. It’s bigger than any lot in Taipei, and it takes a few minutes before they come to a stop at a green Mitsubishi sedan.
It’s another twenty or so minutes chatting with Yanjun and his aunt on the car, driving past farmland, before they arrive at the house. Lin-ǎyí insists they should come in even as Yanjun says they’re only there to drop off their bags. Zhangjing agrees on staying at least a polite ten minutes before they set out for old Tainan.
The entrance hallway and living room are sleek and modern, glass and light wood on whitewashed concrete; Zhangjing spots bold floor-to-ceiling paintings and—
“Is that a three-storey climbing wall?”
“I went through a phase,” Yanjun says.
Zhangjing keeps looking around at the expensive yet tasteful décor. “Are you secretly Hua Zelei and no one told me?”
“Are you a righteous weed?” Yanjun shoots right back, and laughs at his own joke. “Honestly though, he was the only decent man in F4.”
“I’m glad someone agrees with me. Why does anyone like Dao Mingsi!”
They end up ranking Meteor Garden by best to worst characters as they demolish the plate of fruit Lin-ǎyí’s set out, before saying their goodbyes. Yanjun grabs two helmets and a set of keys, which he uses to unlock the moped in the courtyard.
Zhangjing takes in the moped. Looks at Yanjun. “You can ride a moped but not a bike!?”
“Look,” Yanjun says. “I had to learn how to ride a moped because it was cool.”
Zhangjing stares at the cute baby blue moped. “It really isn’t.”
“How dare you hurt my child’s feelings,” Yanjun says dramatically, but hands him a helmet with a grin.
Zhangjing has never been on a moped before, and it turns out to feel a lot more death-defying than anything this cute ought to be. He clings on tightly and finds his face burying into Yanjun’s back at every low, swooping turn. He’s never going to tell Yanjun that this does make him a little cool.
Yanjun takes the scenic route, pointing out landmarks interspersed with funny anecdotes, and eventually Zhangjing works up the courage to peek out above Yanjun’s shoulder and look at the places Yanjun’s mentioning.
They arrive at the old town, and Yanjun parks his moped before they set out. They take their time meandering through spacious alleyways and peeking into sanheyuan protected by small but flamboyant dragons. The architecture is traditional yet lively and colourful like home, a welcome contrast to the stoic monuments of Taipei. Yanjun spins tales about each doorway and ornament, and Zhangjing is almost certain he’s making up all of it on the spot.
They eventually make their way to the Confucius Temple. “First things first,” Yanjun says, and they join a throng of students praying for luck during finals. After they’re done that, Yanjun leads him through the purple-and-red hallways lining the courtyard before leaving through another gate.
“We’re going to the best tsua-bing place,” Yanjun says. He’s leaning in with a solemn expression like he is conveying a state secret of utmost import. “It’s so much better than Smoothie House. Taipei people don’t understand.”
“It’s December,” Zhangjing says, though it’s as warm outside as any department store air-con. As soon as they arrive Zhangjing is beside the counter regardless, eyeing all the fresh fruit and other various toppings and planning the ultimate shaved ice.
“Why don’t we surprise each other,” Yanjun says.
Zhangjing lights up. “Okay,” he says, starting to plan something diabolical. “But you can’t look until they’re done.”
This is how Zhangjing ends up ordering an absurd combination that includes papaya and bell fruit. He grabs a table as he waits for Yanjun to ordering.
“I thought you’d like this,” Yanjun says with the soft hint of a smile. Zhangjing sees red bean and condensed milk atop shaved ice, and it instantly reminds him of the ABC he eats back home.
He breaks out in a grin. “I do.”
Then, telepathically, they both stare at Zhangjing’s creation at the same time. Zhangjing would almost feel bad at the shaved ice monstrosity he made for Yanjun, if he weren’t also partly cackling with glee.
“I actually love bell fruit, it’s my favourite,” Yanjun says, all seriousness as he scoops a heap of ice and fruit into his mouth.
“Do you,” Zhangjing says, becoming slowly and steadily more agog at the display Yanjun is putting on. “Actually.”
“Your face,” Yanjun says. “I like any fruit, really.” He tilts his head and smirks. “But now you have to promise me to eat whatever I give you next.”
Next happens to be the store’s other offering: tomato slices with soy ginger sauce.
“This is cruel and unusual revenge,” Zhangjing says, eyeing the display on top of the pink plastic plate in horror.
“It’s a local specialty,” Yanjun replies with the most earnest voice and expression.
Zhangjing narrows his eyes. “That’s only what you locals say to outsiders to trick them into being your clueless dupes.”
Yanjun, because he is probably a secret sadist, holds up a tomato slice duly dipped in sauce, and quirks an eyebrow at Zhangjing. Zhangjing sighs, and leans forward to take a bite.
It isn’t as terrible as Zhangjing expected. It’s actually surprisingly palatable, but Zhangjing keeps making faces as he eats more pieces just to see Yanjun laugh.
They walk around for a bit more amongst the old buildings, weaving in and out of shops old and new. Eventually, Yanjun points out a half-metre space between two buildings that they squeeze through, and Yanjun leads Zhangjing to a kitschy café of odds-and-ends books for dinner. They spend so long there, losing track of time, that the café ends up kicking them out.
They amble back to the moped and settle for the ride back, the streetlights blurring with the twilight. The warmth of Yanjun’s back takes away the cool bite of the night air and lulls Zhangjing into a calm doze.
Downtown Tainan was bustling when they’d left, but when their moped rolls to a soft stop in Yanjun’s courtyard, there’s only the faintest putter of traffic and an occasional faraway bark.
Even the house is transformed. Cheerful and airy during the day, the night gives it an odd stillness, the hallway light and windows barely enough to light the yawning rectangles of the atrium. Yanjun leads Zhangjing up a floating staircase while whispering silly summaries of every half-storey they pass.
On the second-and-half floor, Yanjun opens a door and reaches without looking to tap on the light. The room, now lit, is a tidy white box out of a Working House ad, with the necessary furniture and a few knickknacks. “The guest bedroom is a bit of a mess so my gugu set up bedding on the floor in my room,” Yanjun explains.
“You didn’t have to,” Zhangjing says, hovering by the doorway.
Yanjun fidgets like he’s trying to look blasé. He blurts out, “You can sleep in my bed if that’s more comfortable.”
Blood rushes to Zhangjing’s face.
Yanjun’s eyes widen in alarm. “I don’t mean it that way!” he exclaims, waving his hand in an apology. “I mean I can sleep on the floor!” Yanjun is blinking rapidly, holding a hand out like he’s trying to calm Zhangjing when he’s the one panicking more. “But—um—if you want to sleep with me I’m also fine with that!”
Watching the normally unflappable Yanjun get so flustered makes Zhangjing bowl over in laughter. “You really aren’t cool,” Zhangjing says, clutching onto the closest thing for stability.
Yanjun looks like his thoughts have stalled and his words have escaped.
Zhangjing grins, still half-holding on the desk he’s found. “Come on,” he says, nudging Yanjun’s arm with a hand. “Aren’t you supposed to say something dramatic here?”
Yanjun is blank with confusion. “Me? Say what?”
“For example,” and here Zhangjing clasps his hands to his chest, “‘I’ve been given a mortal wound!’”
A second elapses. Yanjun, finally, makes a brief sound that turns into gasping giggles, and that sets Zhangjing off again.
When Yanjun eventually stops laughing long enough to speak, he asks, “Do you really think I’m not cool?” He seems to have recovered his compsure, approaching Zhangjing in slow steps and taking a stop right before his desk chair. He places a hand on it and leans in like he’s the star of an overacted idol drama. Zhangjing retaliates by kicking the chair to spin it and throw Yanjun off balance.
“You’re so dramatic,” Zhangjing says, laughing.
They spend an entire half-minute arguing over who is sleeping in the bed, but Yanjun is too good at being a gracious host and wins sleeping on the floor. After a quick shower, Zhangjing carefully tucks himself neatly into the bed, and lies there waiting for Yanjun to return.
“You still awake?” Yanjun asks, closing the door carefully.
“Yeah,” Zhangjing says, turning to look at him.
“We can watch a movie if you want,” Yanjun says. He takes a seat on the bedding on the floor, half-leaning on the bed and half-facing Zhangjing.
“It’s a bit late,” Zhangjing says, turning his head to look at Yanjun.
“I didn’t realize you were such an old man,” Yanjun teases.
Zhangjing makes a face and reaches to swat lightly at Yanjun’s head. “I am only eleven months older than you,” he complains.
“You become a year older on lunar new year,” Yanjun says. “Therefore you are a year older than me.”
“That’s not what you said last time,” Zhangjing says.
“Fine,” Yanjun says, raising his eyebrows. “Even if we go by month you are still older than me by a year.”
“It’s only eleven months!” Zhangjing insists.
Yanjun gives him an over-the-top look of disbelief. “It’s more than eleven months!”
Zhangjing bolts upright in offence. “It’s eleven months and five days, alright? You can’t do anything with five days.”
“You can celebrate lunar new year in five days,” Yanjun retorts, hitting his duvet for emphasis.
“Five days is not enough to celebrate lunar new year,” Zhangjing argues. “I don’t care how long the statutory holiday is, lunar new year is three weeks!”
“That’s what an old man would say,” Yanjun says, and Zhangjing huffs with exaggerated fake annoyance.
They continue bickering. Yanjun’s sentences become more and more rambling, and eventually they’re both lying on their sides talking across the bed-floor gap about anything and nothing in particular. Yanjun falls asleep in the middle of a sentence, leaving Zhangjing looking towards Yanjun, from Yanjun’s own bed. If Zhangjing fell off the bed in the night he could roll right into Yanjun’s arms.
Somehow, Zhangjing falls asleep and doesn’t dream.
Yanjun wakes him up at six in the morning.
Zhangjing reaches blindly for the covers and pulls them over his head. “I can’t do it.”
“You agreed to this,” Yanjun reminds him, wrestling Zhangjing until he’s sitting upright and blinking blearily.
Once Zhangjing is awake, he’s awake, so it doesn’t take long before the two of them are quietly leaving the house, Yanjun re-locking the front gate behind them. It’s different riding towards the city in the twilight, a liminal space formed by the lulling quiet and near-empty roads.
The sun is still rising when they arrive at their first destination, but it is already bustling with people. As Yanjun’s explained, Tainan beef soup is made from meat freshly slaughtered that same morning, which is the only reason Zhangjing has consented to get up this early.
The shop is the kind of tiny, no-frills, decades-old shop that Zhangjing doesn’t often visit in Taipei. There’s plastic maroon stools and wrought navy doors decorated with a full set of chunlian. An elderly man slices meat at the metal counter by the street, and inside an elderly woman ladles rice and pork from a pair of electric cookers.
“Morning, thau-ke-niu,” Yanjun greets warmly, and proceeds to order half the menu.
“That’s too much food,” Zhangjing whispers in a panic once they sit down with their two small bowls of rouzhao fan.
Yanjin waves his hand in disagreement. “It won’t be,” he insists.
The beef soup also comes in a small bowl. It’s simple, a broth and several pink slices of beef; there’s a self-serve table for any additional toppings. (“Just add lots of ginger slivers,” Yanjun says from their table when Zhangjing is looking at all the options trying to figure out what to add.)
Despite its plain appearance, the soup is a flavourful broth with a twinge of cabbage sweetness, a perfect compliment to the plain and springy beef. The rouzhao, on the other hand, is full of juice and flavour, and if Zhangjing scarfs the small bowl of pork and rice down in thirty seconds flat that’s absolutely no one’s business.
It makes Yanjun grin in delight, and turn towards the thau-ke-niu to order another two bowls. The two of them start chatting in Hokkien and somehow Yanjun brings up that Zhangjing’s from Malaysia.
The thau-ke-niu switches to Mandarin to question Zhangjing. “Our food is better than Malaysia’s, yes?”
Zhangjing nods with mild sheepishness. “Ah, it’s very good,” he replies in Hokkien. Realizing he speaks Hokkien, the thau-ke-niu starts asking him rapid questions about why he’s in Taiwan and how he finds it, half of which Yanjun answers for him when he gets too flustered. The embarrassment is worth the extra scoop of rouzhao from the woman though.
“You have to take him to Anping Old Street,” she says to Yanjun.
“I know, thau-ke-niu, we’re going today,” Yanjun reassures. “I had to bring him to your restaurant first though!”
“Don’t be a flatterer,” the woman replies with an abashed flap of her hand.
Soon, they’re saying their goodbyes to the thau-ke-niu and taking a short hop on the moped to the Sicao Wetlands. The boat tour hasn’t started running yet, Yanjun says, so they end up taking a stroll through the area to kill time.
Zhangjing’s staring at a compound that looks vaguely like a floating sci-fi settlement when Yanjun asks, “Have you decided what you’re doing after graduation?”
“Not really,” Zhangjing replies, turning towards Yanjun. “The plan was for me to graduate, move back, and start job hunting, but.” Zhangjing looks away from Yanjun, leading the way beside him. The morning sky is clear and blue. It’s too early to be making promises, yet he says, “Honestly, I’m just as likely to find a job here as I would be in Johor or Penang.”
“You still have a few months to make up your mind,” Yanjun says, with a reassuring smile that makes something in Zhangjing loosen.
“Yeah,” Zhangjing says. It’s not the first time Zhangjing has thought that even though Yanjun’s younger, he has a surety Zhangjing admires.
They take a brief walk through a massive temple with an intricate and imposing interior, then make their way to the line for the mangrove tunnel boat tour.
There’s some dozen people on the raft-like boat. It putters down a canal and eventually reaches the mangrove. As they enter they’re enveloped by an emerald glow, from leaves reflecting water reflected back in turn. The guide has to ask the left side of the boat to keep their heads down to avoid colliding with tree branches.
Zhangjing turns to Yanjun. “Take a photo of me.” Yanjun easily complies.
“Do you want me to take one for you?” Zhangjing asks.
Yanjun shakes his head, a hint of a smirk lurking on his lips. “I just need a photo of you,” he says.
Zhangjing swats at his arm. “If you’re going to be like that, you have to at least take a photo with me.”
Yanjun obliges and wraps his non-phone arm around Zhangjing, who cuddles in and throws up a peace sign. The tourist photos done, they disentangle, and Zhangjing finally takes in the mangrove properly. It’s a beautiful green, and he thinks they could lie on a boat here floating for an afternoon.
“I wish it were quieter,” Zhangjing murmurs, leaning his knee into Yanjun’s.
Yanjun, face turned towards the branches above, hums. “I’ll take you to a nice quiet corner of Taipei next time.”
“I don’t think that exists,” Zhangjing says.
Yanjun’s eyes flick towards him, and Zhangjing sees a small quirk of his mouth in profile. “I’ll take you there,” Yanjun replies.
The sun has fully risen when they leave the shade of the grove: a bright point set against deep sky blue.
Yanjun and his moped whisk Zhangjing to the next stops of their whirlwind tour of Anping’s attractions. They pose for photos in a concrete window of a salt warehouse abandoned to banyan trees; on the red-brick steps of a Dutch fort with Tainan stretching behind them; on a bridge over a star-shaped moat dotted with empty paddleboats.
As they go, the ticket lines lengthen and the crowds thicken with families with young children, and university students like them on winter break. By the time they make their way to Anping’s street market, the roads are more pedestrian than car.
Yanjun stops at the mouth of the market. “So, what do you want to eat first? Savoury or sweet?”
Zhangjing takes a look in all four directions. “Winter melon juice,” he says.
Now with a plastic cup in hand and sweetness cooling his mouth, Zhangjing decides: “Savoury.”
Yanjun takes him to a restaurant, telling Zhangjing to grab two seats while he lines up to order. A few minutes later, Yanjun comes with two plates of fried oyster and sauce drizzled on the plate edges.
“You didn’t get the o-a jian?” Zhangjing asks.
“It’s not that good here,” Yanjun says, handing a pair of disposable chopsticks to Zhangjing. “Besides there’s four other places we need to go to. The fried oysters are what they’re known for; try one!”
The oysters are small, crisp mouthfuls. A couple bites later Zhangjing decides he prefers the spicy sauce. “It’s barely even spicy, it’s tangy”, he tells Yanjun.
Soon their plates are empty and they are out the doors, weaving further into the crowded alley. Before long Zhangjing is juggling a bag of fried dough sticks and a second bag of candied fruit alongside his drink. He hands them off to Yanjun when he is lured by samples of thick bakkwa and ends up buying a sheet to snack on as they walk.
As the crowds thin out, Yanjun takes them down an empty alley. Shops give way to walled residences, some built so close together the alley barely fits two people. Circular windows in the walls peek into century-old houses, some crumbling back to earth and others standing tall, adorned fresh coats of plum-flower pink, mint green, and navy blue.
A few more alleys later, they are back on a main road.
“This way,” Yanjun says, and leads them to a line in front of a douhua shop. The store is old; though there’s little consideration for interior design, the walls are lined with large painted vases and couches carved out of dark wood.
The menu advertises black douhua, which is not something Zhangjing has seen before, so he gets that topped with azuki beans, peanuts, and fenguo. Yanjun easily balances a tray with two overfull paper bowls of douhua soup and leads to an empty table near the stairs.
Zhangjing takes a bite of his black douhua. Holds it on his tongue. Swallows it. Says, “It tastes the same as regular douhua?”
“I think it’s supposed to be healthier,” Yanjun says. He gestures to his bowl of regular douhua. “Do you want to try mine?”
Zhangjing looks at it. “No? Who gets almond soup with their douhua.”
“It’s on the menu! It’s a pretty standard douhua soup menu!”
“They have matcha azuki shaved ice, it is not.”
They depart when their douhua disappears. On the street, Zhangjing is so busy talking with Yanjun and dodging mopeds and cars that he’s surprised to find himself where they started: at the temple where Yanjun’s parked his moped.
Yanjun hands him the helmet he’s become rapidly familiar with. “To the next stop!”
The next stop, it turns out, is an alley out of time. Lanterns and chunlian cover doors and windows that have seen better years. There are shops selling hand-carved furniture, and shops selling tourist plushes. Yanjun leads them around the crowds and to a nondescript set of four panelled doors. With a metal clatter, they slide open to the familiar aroma of brewing coffee.
“How do you find these places,” Zhangjing says, taking a seat at a tiny table.
“I have to keep up my air of mystery,” Yanjun replies.
Zhangjing dithers over what cakes to order until Yanjun agrees to eat anything Zhangjing doesn’t finish — as if. A cat hops onto their table just as Yanjun takes their order form to the front. It disappears in a flash of tail just as Yanjun comes back.
Zhangjing laughs. “It likes me better,” he says.
“Of course it likes you better,” Yanjun says, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I like you better too.”
Zhangjing feels his face heat. “Why are you like this,” he mutters into his hands.
Yanjun places his arms on the table and leans in. “You like it,” he says.
“You don’t have to sound so smug,” Zhangjing says.
“I do, because it’s you.”
Zhangjing is flagging by mid-afternoon, so they make their way back to Yanjun’s house. Shoes off, Yanjun leads him up the stairs towards the sun, to the top half-story that is half-bar, half cozy nook. Zhangjing picks an armchair and settles in it. Yanjun is saying something about brewing tea for Zhangjing, but he loses the rest of it to sleep.
He wakes up to the night sky.
“Sorry,” he says to Yanjun, who is scrolling through his phone in the sofa opposite.
“You had to wake up really early today,” Yanjun says. “I wanted to let you rest.”
Dinner is a dozen different dishes in the first-floor dining room. Zhangjing feels a bit bad at making Yanjun’s aunt do all this work except he has really missed family-style cooking.
“Thank you ǎyí,” Zhangjing says. “This is incredible.”
“Have more rice,” Lin-ǎyí insists, taking Zhangjing’s bowl when he isn’t paying attention and placing another scoop in it.
“I couldn’t possibly eat this much,” Zhangjing says, and takes another piece of fried milkfish.
He looks up to see Yanjun not eating, and looking straight at him. He feels a smile form on his cheeks. “You should eat too,” he says.
“Oh, yeah,” Yanjun says absentmindedly, lifting his bowl and taking a bite of plain white rice.
“Here,” Zhangjing says, placing a large, fatty piece of lurou in Yanjun’s bowl.
Yanjun’s lapse makes Zhangjing’s confidence grow as dinner ends and they switch to fruit for dessert, as they take their separate showers and return to Yanjun’s room, on the half-storey of its own.
The door clicks behind Yanjun, and he makes his way around the pallet to sit to his bed.
Zhangjing, on the pallet, shuffles towards the bed. He places his hands on the bed and levers himself up to his knees.
“Yanjun,” he whispers.
Yanjun pivots his body to face him. “Hey.”
Zhangjing lets gravity lead him, slowly tipping forward until he meets Yanjun. Lips chapped from the winter drag against his. A nose, soft warm pressure against his. Cold hands, tentative through the fuzzy cotton of his pyjamas yet a solid support against his shoulders.
Zhangjing lifts his head away and looks into Yanjun’s dark eyes.
“Good night,” he whispers.
Yanjun leans in, another soft kiss.
“Good night.”
“How did you like Tainan?” Yanjun asks, as the train slowly accelerates out of the city.
“The food was amazing,” Zhangjing gushes. “The buildings were pretty cool.”
“Cool,” Yanjun says.
The city gives way to fuzzy fields. Zhangjing finds Yanjun’s hand, and waits for it to wrap around his. He smiles at Yanjun.
“Thank you.”
二〇十七年
三月
They’re at Da’an Park today: close enough to both their campuses without being part of either. Yanjun sent him a LINE a few minutes ago, saying his class was running late, so Zhangjing finds them a bench.
“Here,” Zhangjing says when Yanjun arrives, handing over a thermos. “I made you bak kut teh.”
Yanjun takes a sip. “Spicy!” He dives for his bubble tea.
Once Yanjun recovers, he asks Zhangjing, “How’s second term?”
“Everyone’s more focused on graduating than class right now,” Zhangjing says. “So it’s hard to focus.”
“Same,” Yanjun says. “But for me it’s because everyone is still in vacation mode.” Zhangjing laughs. “I can’t help it! There’s a sleep spell in the air in these lecture halls.”
They make their way through the rest of the food — two takeout containers of nasi lemak from the one place Zhangjing finds acceptable.
Zhangjing thinks about what he’s going to say, as they make their way through rice and soup and tea.
“Um,” he finally says, when he is out of bubble tea and excuses. “One of my professors recommended me for a job. So I guess you won’t be getting rid of me any time soon.”
“That’s great!” Yanjun says. “I’ll miss your cute café apron though.” His lips twitch. “I guess I’ll have to buy you a sexy one when you get an apartment.”
“No,” Zhangjing says, face lit red. “Well, okay. If you buy a normal one too.”
Yanjun stutters. “Wait, really? I, um —” Yanjun jams a bubble tea straw into his mouth in an obvious panic.
Zhangjing falls into Yanjun laughing. “We can just go shopping for normal house goods together.”
Yanjun pulls himself off the bubble tea. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s do that.”
Zhangjing grins, and pecks Yanjun on the corner of the lips. “It’s a date.”
Notes
- Shaobing youtiao and doujiang — savoury flaky flatbread filled with fried dough and often also green onion omelette; and soy milk.
- Chelun bing, filled with dousha — palm-sized pastry with a thin waffle-like skin, a.k.a. imagawayaki or wheel cake; filled with azuki paste.
- Zha doufu; danzai mian — fried tofu; a small bowl of oil noodles with minced pork and other things.
- Xiangchang — plump, juicy, sweet-savoury sausage.
- 84er — usually people in Taiwan give their ages by saying what Minguo year they were born in. This happens to neatly avoid the problem of Western versus traditional age reckoning.
- Foam milk tea — alternate translation for “bubble milk tea”, because Mamegoma doesn’t really look like bubbles.
- Biandang — Boxed meal / bento box. There’s a whole Wikipedia article about the Taiwan Railway Biandang.
- Sanheyuan — traditional U-shaped housing complex with a courtyard, occupied by a single extended family.
- Tsua-bing — shaved ice
- ABC — short for air batu campur, meaning “mixed ice”.
- Working House — home goods and furniture store, like Muji with less stationary and more colour.
- Chunlian — red paper scrolls with auspicious poetry that frame a front entrance. Usually hung for Lunar New Year but some people hang them year-round.
- Thau-ke-niu — wife of a business owner
- Rouzhao fan — braised minced pork on rice, not to be confused with lurou fan
- O-a jian — oyster omelette with celery leaves, bouncy batter, and sweet-and-sour sauce
- Bakkwa — pork jerky, usually sweet-savoury; the thick version is soft and chewy
- Douhua — dessert tofu. Black douhua is made from black soybeans; it’s actually light grey.
- Fenguo — tapioca jelly, typically tinted yellow with gardenia
- Lurou — pork marinated and boiled in soy sauce, spices, and sugar
- Bak kut teh — a soup of pork ribs, garlic, and spices steeped for several hours. Zhangjing made it in one of the Idol Producer extras.
- Nasi lemak — coconut rice with fried anchovies, peanuts, cucumber, and sambal sauce.
Yanjun’s aunt’s house is like this one but with more floorspace and storeys.
Typing “Sicao” metaphysically pains me because it’s pronounced /sɨ tsʰau/, but as much as I want to invent my own Mandarin romanization system we have enough of them already. (There are five in use in Taiwan, lmao.)