Chapter 9: Unspoken Distance

This small winery was unlike a modern bar; it resembled a tavern from an ancient drama. Barely twenty square meters, yet its shelves rose high, the air thick with the pungent aroma of wine. No bright lights illuminated the space, only a single low-watt bulb dangling from a wooden frame, casting a dim, uneven glow.

The floor was paved with bluestone, like the road outside. Long benches lined the walls, crowded with black wine jars, each labeled with handwritten slips: osmanthus wine, glutinous rice wine, plum wine… a gallery of flavors. Each jar had a spout, ready to pour.

Cheng Yun tapped one jar and called softly, “Is anyone there?”

A moment later, a plump woman emerged, wrapped in thick pajamas, her energy surprisingly lively.

Cheng Yun smiled. “Closed?”

“Not yet.” The shopkeeper blinked, surprised at customers so late. “Do you want to buy alcohol?”

“Is it alright to drink here?”

“Of course.”

Cheng Yun glanced around. “But there’s nowhere to sit.”

The shopkeeper quickly fetched two small stools, placing them by the door. “You can sit here.”

Cheng Yun giggled. “How much are your alcohol?”

“How much do you want?”

“Can I have a little of everything?”

“Sure.” She produced disposable cups. “Seven yuan a cup, but if you drink many kinds, you might get drunk easily.”

“It’s alright.” Cheng Yun took a cup. “How about this, I’ll fill one cup with wine, and you can pay us when we’re done.”

The shopkeeper, straightforward, agreed. “Okay, you drink. Just call me when you’re done.”

When she retreated inside, only Cheng Yun and Anan remained. Anan eyed the cup. “This wine has a strong aftereffect.”

Cheng Yun moved along the jars. “Which one do you like?”

“…” Anan hesitated. “Sticky rice wine.”

She filled two cups, handing one to him.

“I’m serious, this wine has a strong aftereffect.”

By the time he looked up, Cheng Yun had already drained hers. The sudden chill made her close her eyes, breathing deep. Her slender fingers clutched the cup, sharp and clean at the tips. When she opened her eyes again, they gleamed with a frosty veil.

She swirled her glass at him. “Come on.”

Anan stared blankly until she repeated it, then lowered his head and drank in one gulp. The cold bite made him frown.

Cheng Yun’s gaze lingered, languid yet chilled. “Want to try something else?” She replaced their cups, scanning labels. “What else have you drunk?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

“Besides glutinous rice wine, what else do you like?”

He thought, then said, “Actually, they’re all pretty much the same.”

Cheng Yun smiled, filling osmanthus wine. This time, they sipped slowly.

She sat on a stool, pointing to the one beside her. “You sit too.”

The room was too dark, so she shifted closer to the door where moonlight spilled in. Outside, the stone path shimmered like silver sand, houses scattered on the hillside glowing faintly, their lights mingling with stars.

“Look,” Cheng Yun said softly, “isn’t this scene perfect for drinking?”

Anan sat beside her, knees bent, shoulder against the door. “Because it’s cold?”

Cold? Cheng Yun smiled. “Yes, because it’s cold.”

“Drinking warms you up.”

“Exactly, exactly.” She raised her glass. “Come on, let’s have a drink.”

Anan’s masculine ease surfaced. “Okay.”

Another glass down.

Cheng Yun tilted her head back, stretching, spinning lightly before stopping to gaze at him.

“Drink less,” Anan said.

She stayed silent.

“Or drink slower.”

She smiled. He sighed faintly.

“Why are you sighing again?” she teased.

He stood, poured another cup. A hand reached out. “Pour me a cup too.”

He obliged, but remained standing, leaning against the door. His features blurred in shadow, tall frame cloaked in dimness.

“Why don’t you sit down?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, only drank.

She raised her brow, smirking, but he said, “Drink slowly, you don’t need to follow me.”

“Why?”

The fragile plastic cup creaked in his hand. “I drank a lot because I’m a little cold. You don’t need to drink so fast. I didn’t lie to you. This wine has a strong aftereffect; be careful you don’t feel nauseous later.”

Cheng Yun drank half a glass, then said lightly, “I’m cold too.”

Silence stretched. The mountain road outside was deserted, lanterns dim, no passersby.

Three glasses—nearly half a jin each.

Finally, Anan said, “You really don’t seem like a woman.”

Cheng Yun’s reaction was slow, then she laughed—soft chuckle swelling into loud, unrestrained laughter.

“Oh… is that so? Do I not seem like a woman?”

She spread her arms against the wine rack, trench coat falling open to reveal her sweater, moonlight tracing her figure—slender waist, long legs, pale face framed by loose hair, lips vibrant with alcohol. Her gaze held a smile, provocation, and mystery.

Anan leaned in shadow, silent.

She let him watch.

At last, he shifted, scraping leather against wood, and called out, “Boss—”

The shopkeeper hurried out. “What, finished drinking?”

Anan pointed. “How much?”

“Six cups, forty-two.”

Cheng Yun moved to pay, but Anan had already spoken: “Forty, I guess.”

“Okay, forty.”

By the time she stood, he had paid and walked out.

“Hey.” She called after him, but he never turned. She slowed, watching him vanish at the intersection.

She stopped, laughing bitterly. “Damn it…”

Looking around, she thought only of one thing.

She wanted a cigarette. More than ever before.