The Night Market Stall – Part 2: Closing Time

On Friday, Wei closed the stall early.

He wiped down the counter, folded the awning and locked the gas bottle. The market was still roaring around them: grills hissing, barkers shouting, a karaoke machine bellowing a love ballad. Jamie stood watching, hands in pockets.

"What's happening?"

"I'm taking you somewhere."

"Is it safe?"

"It's a river."

They rode Wei's scooter through the humid night, past neon signs and glowing rows of noodle shops, to a quiet bank where lights danced on the black water. Cyclists glided along the path. A heron stood on a pier. Wei produced a thermos and two tin bowls.

"Same soup," he said. "But no crowd."

They ate side by side on the grass. The soup tasted different here, richer in the quiet. The river moved slowly, glittering. Far off, the city hummed.

"Say 'thank you,'" said Wei.

"Xièxiè."

"Better."

"Say 'I like you.'"

Wei went still. "Wǒ xǐhuān nǐ."

"Wǒ xǐhuān nǐ," Jamie repeated, carefully, and this time he got it right.

"Can I ask you something?" said Wei, quietly.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Jamie, a rough whisper. "And if you say stop, you must teach me a hundred more words."

"That is a long punishment."

"I'm in no hurry."

Wei kissed him, soft and sweet, one hand rising to Jamie's jaw. Jamie kissed him back with warm, steady certainty, tasting of anise and chilli. The river glittered. A faint breeze lifted the smell of jasmine from the bank.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Wei.

"Green," said Jamie. "Very green."

The stall now has a second stool, always kept. On the menu board, in careful English: Jamie's Special. Extra chilli. Ask nicely.

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