Keys Are Terrible Liars

Qiao opened her eyes.

Someone said her name.

“Qiao.”

She did not move.

The workshop ceiling was above her. Pale plaster. A dark water stain over one beam. The little stove ticked beside the wall.

The man was kneeling beside her.

“Qiao?”

His mouth moved at the same time as the sound.

Qiao stared at him.

“Again.”

“What?”

She sat up.

“My name.”

He stopped breathing for a moment.

Then, very carefully:

“Qiao.”

She heard the Q catch at the back of his throat. Heard the breath after it. Heard the room around the word.

She laughed once.

It came out wrong.

He laughed too.

That was worse.

His laugh had a rough edge she had never been able to see through the opening.

Qiao put both hands over her mouth.

He said her name again.

She lowered them.

“Stop wasting it.”

His smile broke across his face.

“You told me to say it.”

“I heard you the first three times.”

“You counted?”

“I count things.”

“I had noticed.”

For several seconds neither of them said anything.

The silence belonged to them now instead of to the thing between them.

He lifted one hand.

Qiao watched it come toward her.

His fingers stopped a few inches from her cheek.

“Can I?”

She almost told him that was a stupid question.

Instead she nodded.

The backs of his fingers touched her face.

Warm.

Not pressure against an invisible surface. Not the shape of a hand opposite hers. Skin.

Qiao caught his wrist.

He froze.

She tightened her fingers.

Bone under skin. A pulse.

His thumb moved once against her cheek.

“Again,” she said.

“I’m still doing it.”

“Good.”

She turned his hand over and pressed her palm into his.

Their fingers closed.

Qiao looked down at them as if one of the hands might disappear if she looked away.

It did not.

Behind him, the opening still stood beside the flour cupboard.

Her cellar was visible through it.

Concrete. Compressor. Grey blanket. Her ledger on the floor where she had left it.

Qiao looked from the cellar to the hand holding hers.

Then back.

“What?” he asked.

She stood.

He stood with her.

Qiao went to the opening.

Usually the opening had rules. Paper crossed. Metal crossed. Food crossed. Her hand did not.

She put one hand through.

Nothing stopped it.

Her fingers entered the cellar air.

She pulled them back.

Put her whole arm through.

Then her head.

The cellar smelled wet.

She withdrew.

He was trying not to smile.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re doing it with your face.”

Qiao stepped through.

One boot landed on concrete.

Then the other.

She stood in her cellar.

The man remained in the workshop on the other side.

“Qiao?”

She heard him.

Qiao turned around.

He was standing where he had always stood.

She stepped back through.

He caught her around the waist because she came through too quickly.

Qiao hit his chest with both hands.

Once.

Then again.

His arms closed around her.

Qiao stood very still.

She had imagined this badly.

In the imagining, she had always noticed his arms first.

Instead she noticed his shirt against her face. The scrape of his chin in her hair. One hand between her shoulder blades. His breathing changing because hers had.

She put her arms around him.

Neither of them spoke.

After a while he said, very quietly, “Same place.”

Qiao looked past his shoulder at the opening. Her wet concrete on one side. His warm boards on the other.

Then she looked at the table.

Two chairs.

Exactly as he had drawn them.

“You owe me payment,” she said.

He let go slowly.

“I thought this was the payment.”

“This is infrastructure.”

“That seems unfair.”

“You made the offer.”

He pulled out one chair.

Qiao sat.

He took the other.

For the first time, nothing separated their knees beneath the table.

Behind him, something under a cloth gave six uneven ticks.

Qiao looked past his shoulder.

He moved his chair half an inch and blocked her view.