Cold Night, Warm Bao

The Chinatown market square is always oddly sleepy in the wake of the Lunar New Year. A great portion of the foot traffic and the stalls alike have gone back to be with their families for the week.

Meaning that the crowd that wanders between the stalls of the trade hub has thinned out a great deal. Compound that with a torrential downpour and a swiftly-approaching twilight, and Chinatown’s market district is left…not empty, but sparse. Asleep. Populated only by the occasional pedestrian hurrying home, shielding themselves from the rain with whatever they can.

Asleep but for a single stall, manned by but one man, and housing but one patron under its wide awning.

“Another.” The woman’s palm slaps the wooden surface of the stall as she leans backwards against it, staring out into the night. A small stream of smoke rises from the cigarette in her mouth, drifting up into the air and out from under the stall awning, where it’s swallowed immediately by the stream of water pouring down the awning’s edge.

Moths flit about the lantern hanging from one of the stall’s supports, knocking their heads stupidly against the glass. The neon letters that form ‘BIG WANG’S BAO & BAIJIU BAR’ atop the stall buzz lightly, barely audible over the sound of the rain.

The hand that’d hit the table twitches, resisting the urge to reach for a drink that isn’t there. Yet.

“Another bao platter, or another baijiu?” The stout Cantonese man behind the stall asks, already knowing the answer will be–

“Both,” the woman grunts. A self-fulfilling prophecy. The cook merely rolls his eyes and gets to work.

The sound of sizzling fills the air as already-wrapped dough balls are placed in a steaming basket which is set over the small stove behind the stall. Steam rises up, turning the bottom of the awning even more moist than it already was. Feng takes another drag.

“Gonna run out of baijiu if you keep ordering this fast.” The man says as if it’s an inevitability rather than a warning, producing another carafe of the stuff. “You’ll have to settle with beer if you wanna keep drinking.”

“Oh, please. I’ll go thirsty instead. I’ve got standards.”

“You call loitering at a Baijiu stand at eleven on a Tuesday ‘standards’?”

She scoffs. “I don't wanna hear that from the asshole operating it.”

'Baijiu stand’. Wang always calls it a bao stand when he’s trying to look good, and a baijiu stand whenever he’s trying to make her feel shitty enough that she shoves off back to her apartment and he can finally close up for the night.

“I’m only operating it because your alcoholic ass is still here. You’d think that you’d have run out of bad decisions to make by now.”

“I’ve made a whole lot of shitty decisions, Wang,” she replies with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I can’t possibly be expected to remember them all.”

“Something tells me that’s less to do with how many decisions you make and more to do with how much alcohol you guzzle.”

“Man, I pay you to pass me baijiu and bao plates, not give me life advice. I liked you better back in Taipei when you knew how to shut the fuck up.”

“And I liked you better back in Taipei when I could ogle your ass without having to deal with your unbearable personality.”

“Gonna tell your wife you said that, Wang.” Féng's head turns back to grin at the man.

The cook snorts, not even looking up from the bao he’s steaming. “No, you won’t.”

Feng just turns back, still grinning as she takes another drag of her cigarette. Called her bluff.