The neon of Flushing still burned, even late at night.
Li Zhe stepped out of the subway, his legs heavy, the smell of smoke and oil still clinging to his shirt.
Almost by instinct, he turned into the narrow street he knew so well, toward the small bar tucked between a laundromat and a grocery store.
Inside, the air was warm and still.
On the stage sat a man with a guitar, singing softly.
The voice was far from perfect, but it carried a raw honesty that made people stop and listen.
Li Zhe took his usual seat in the corner.
The bartender didn't ask. He reached for a thick-bottomed glass, dropped in several solid cubes of ice, their sharp clinks cutting through the quiet.
Then, with practiced ease, he measured—30 milliliters of gin, 30 of Campari, 30 of sweet vermouth.
The dark liquid swirled around the ice, stirred in steady rhythm.
At the end, a strip of orange peel, twisted at the rim. The oils burst in the air, leaving behind a faint brightness, before dropping into the glass like a final stroke.
The Negroni was done.
Simple, but without room for error—every step required restraint and precision.
The glass slid across the counter toward Li Zhe.
He lifted it, took a sip.
The sweetness came first, fleeting, then the long, lingering bitterness.
He set the glass down, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it.
The flame flared, smoke rose.
The bitterness of the drink mixed with the bite of tobacco, burning his throat, dulling his chest.
Leaning back, he exhaled a thin stream of white.
Just then, the music shifted.
The guitar struck a cleaner rhythm, and the singer's rough voice carried a familiar refrain:
"Rushing, running, always in a hurry,
Why must life always be this way?
Could it be that my only dream
Is to spend my whole life like this?"
For a moment, the bar grew still.
Li Zhe held his cigarette, eyes resting on the slice of orange floating in his glass.
Ash built slowly at the tip, then fell soundlessly into the empty tray.
At the far end of the bar, a young woman had opened a sketchbook.
Her pen traced quick lines across the page—capturing the singer, the stage, the slant of light.
Once, she looked up, her eyes brushing against his.
She gave the faintest nod, then lowered her head again, the sound of pen on paper mingling with the guitar.
Li Zhe turned away, raised his glass.
The bitterness slid down his throat, smoke thick in his chest.
The door opened with a scrape.
A gust of night wind swept in, scattering a few napkins from the counter.
The woman pressed her hand against the page, holding it steady.
The laughter of new customers filled the room, breaking the quiet.
Li Zhe stubbed out his cigarette and stood.
He nodded lightly toward the bartender.
Cold air struck as he stepped outside.
The street lay empty, neon spilling across wet pavement, fractured into countless shards.
He kept his head down and walked into the night.
His steps were slow, but steady.