The Green Glove

Stories

The Green Gloves

Original short story · AI-assisted writing and editorial revision · 18+

This is a work of fiction. All characters involved in the romance are fictional adults over twenty-five, and none of them are related.

Chapter One: A Single Glove

Most of the service station’s metal rack stood empty. This batch of old things had been taken back out of the sealed boxes only a week ago. The station had moved three times, and the numbers at the bottom of the boxes had never been struck off. On the morning of the twenty-seventh of the twelfth lunar month, the lost-and-found held nothing but one left-hand green glove, the yarn pilled, the fingertips worn smooth. Lin Zhao turned it over. A cafeteria slip fell from the palm. The front was printed with a date three years back: December twenty-eighth, table four, two bowls of noodles. On the back, one line in pencil: The right one is on the third shelf of the old cabinet. Who writes a whereabouts into a glove no one has claimed?

“Aunt Feng packs up at two. The old cabinet gets sealed at four.” He Yu stamped the snow off his shoes in the doorway, his voice level. He lived in 501, she in 502, door facing door. On the holiday duty roster, though, the two names were paired year after year.

Lin Zhao was thirty-seven, he forty-one. The people in the building took them only for the helpful sort. She held the slip up to the window. “The register doesn’t name an owner. It only says it was shaken out of an unclaimed cloth bag. Once the seal goes on, it waits until after the New Year.”

“The key’s on my ring.” He set the brass key on the table, his gray coat folded over his arm. “You make up the entry. I’ll open the storeroom. The cafeteria’s on the way. Aunt Feng at table four might remember.”

One of the fluorescent tubes flickered. He Yu lifted the clear bag and looked at the brown mending thread inside the cuff, then set it down. “This thread doesn’t look like shop stitching.” Lin Zhao made a sound of agreement and did not take it up. In the outgoing column she wrote the date and “under inquiry,” number seventeen. Where the rack had emptied, a deeper patch of gray remained.

The pen stopped in the column for the person handling it. On December twenty-eighth three years ago, his mother, He Xiulan, had left this building to go to her daughter’s city and recuperate. This spring she had died. The stairwell no longer smelled of camphor. The people in 501 and 502 still nodded as before, but salt, tape, and hot water were no longer borrowed.

“My father’s watch went missing in those same days,” He Yu said suddenly, his eyes still on the glove. “I asked her. She said she had it put away. We turned the place over. It wasn’t there.”

Lin Zhao pulled the zipper to the top. “Cafeteria first. The slip doesn’t mention the watch.”

Old sign-in slips were clipped in the drawer. The top one was from last New Year’s Day, two signatures side by side, the ink equally black. Lin Zhao smoothed that slip flat and did not tear it.

The wind was hard when they went out. He Yu turned up the collar of his coat, then let it down. Lin Zhao counted the change in her pocket. If Aunt Feng was still selling noodles, they could at least sit long enough to finish the questions. On the notice board their names were circled in red, and beside them it said: These two can be counted on. The keys struck a light sound at the end of the corridor. Meltwater printed two tracks on the floor tiles that soon overlapped.

Chapter Two: Table Four

The cafeteria had one pot left. Aunt Feng, sixty-six, with a white towel padding the rim of her ear, held the slip under the window.

“The twenty-eighth, table four, two bowls of noodles. Xiulan sat on the inside. Across from her, a woman about your age, head down, mending a glove. The hole was at the side of the finger. The thread was brown.” She pointed with her chin at the pen cup on the counter, a few short pencils sharpened into pits and ridges. “The thread was from her own needle box. The pencil was mine. When she wrote, she was afraid someone would see. She blocked it with her arm.”

Lin Zhao’s fingers tightened on the plastic bag. He Yu did not look at her. “And the glove afterward?”

“Afterward it all got mixed up.” Aunt Feng ladled out two bowls of noodles and pushed them over, unwilling to let anyone ask on an empty mouth. “A man in a gray coat took the green one off the back of the chair at table four. His sleeve knocked the pen cup over. The pencils rolled under the table. Xiulan bent to pick them up. I called to him. He didn’t even turn his head.”

The gray coat on He Yu’s arm slid onto the chair. He did not pick it up at once. “The pen cup was the twenty-seventh. I came in on the twenty-seventh looking for my mother, didn’t find her, knocked your cup over. There was a green scarf on the chair back. I took it home to her. On the twenty-eighth I got as far as the door. I didn’t sit.”

“I don’t care about the day before or the day after.” Aunt Feng draped the towel over her shoulder. “My husband worked on the railway. One year he didn’t come through the door until the first of the New Year, and the dumpling wrappers had already split. I put the dumplings back in the pot one by one and didn’t ask him where he’d been late. So the gray coat knocking over the pen cup—I remember that clear. Green. I didn’t see it wrong.”

Lin Zhao looked at the coat. “Did Aunt Xiulan say anything else?”

“She said not to press Pei’s shop, that she had the ticket put away. And she said not to leave the right one just anywhere. When someone at home gets anxious, they take a thing they haven’t taken in with their eyes for a thing that’s been lost.” Aunt Feng looked at Lin Zhao. “Your hand was steady when you mended. I thought at the time you were family at the same table.”

The exhaust fan hummed. A skin of brightness slowly formed on the noodle broth. Lin Zhao put the slip back in the bag. “The thread was hers. The needle was mine. The noodles were her treat. She told me to take the left one back and give it to He Yu. The right one was somewhere else. The place is written on the back of the slip. You’ve already seen it.”

He Yu finally picked up the coat and folded it twice. “Aunt Feng saw someone take the green one. You say you were only mending. One of those sentences is wrong. I need to know which.”

Aunt Feng walked them to the door, the spatula still in her hand. “The stubs are under the counter. I can’t be bothered to dig. If you want to check the dates, squat down and look yourselves. I have to close.”

Lin Zhao squatted and drew out a carbon-copy book. On the twenty-seventh, table four was one person, the meal unfinished. Only on the twenty-eighth were there two bowls of noodles. She dog-eared that page and pushed the book back. He Yu stood in the draft and did not deny the dog-ear. The two bowls were barely touched. They set them back on the windowsill and walked toward the old cabinet.

Chapter Three: The Third Shelf

The storeroom had no window. On the third shelf of the old cabinet lay a rolled Spring Festival couplet banner, the red cloth faded to dark red, bound with hemp cord in two places. A length of green yarn hung from the hinge. He Yu picked it off with the bow of the key, set it in his palm, and did not hand it to Lin Zhao at once.

“The banner used to be on the top shelf,” he said. “Last month, when they cleared the storeroom, Old Cen moved it to the third. I was the one who stuffed that glove in.”

Lin Zhao squatted and did not touch the cord yet. “Three years ago you were the one who cleared it, too.”

“The night my mother left, property management said if the cabinet wasn’t emptied it would be treated as abandoned. I was on the night shift. I emptied it.” The key was still in the lock, swaying slightly. “There was a green glove inside. Only one. I thought she wouldn’t even leave a pair complete, so I pushed it into this roll of cloth. I didn’t take it home, and I didn’t open it.”

“Why not open it?”

“Opening it would have meant seeing what else she had left to say.” He looked at the knot. “I’d just finished asking about the watch that day. I didn’t want to hear another ‘it’s put away.’”

From the activity room, Old Cen slapped an intake register on the table and called them. Old Cen was fifty-two and looked after the service station’s cabinets and seals. One line from the afternoon of December twenty-eighth read: unclaimed cloth bag, bench in the activity room, containing a library card, tissues, one green glove. The name on the library card: Lin Zhao. The thirtieth: bag collected by Lin Zhao, glove not taken. The note was in Old Cen’s hand: glove listed separately for claiming, to be sealed after one week pending inquiry.

“I called you. You were at the train station.” Old Cen tapped that line with a knuckle. “You said leave the bag for now. I thought once you saw the notice you’d come for the glove. The notice was up seven days.”

Lin Zhao stood straight with a hand on the cabinet edge. Her legs were numb. “Aunt Xiulan’s train was at two. I didn’t go to see her off. My father’s train came in at the same hour. I met him, and I didn’t get back to the building until that night. The moment I was back I went to look at the old cabinet. The third shelf was empty. Two days later I collected the bag. The glove had already been listed on its own for claiming. I saw it, and I didn’t take it.”

She looked at He Yu. “The left one was in my bag, meant to be given to you. Your mother gave me the left one and this slip in the cafeteria. She said she had put the right one in the old cabinet, and told me not to explain for her. I forgot the bag on the bench. When I came back to look, the third shelf was empty. I took it that you had already seen the right one, so I wouldn’t knock on your door again, and I left the left one on the claim rack too.”

He Yu’s hand pressed on the banner. The knot sank into his palm. “I never looked. I only saw one, and I hid it in the cloth. After I hid it I went on writing my name on the duty roster. If a person is at the service station, he doesn’t have to go back to 501 and face that empty cabinet.”

Old Cen looked at the two of them and rolled the seal tape onto his wrist. “At four I have to stick it. If you’re going to undo this roll of cloth, undo it now. Otherwise, after the New Year I can’t promise it’ll still be on the third shelf.”

The light went out for a second, then came back. Someone in the stairwell was throwing the switch to test the power. He Yu did not undo the cord. He wound the length of green yarn around his index finger until the knuckle went white.

“Back to the service station,” Lin Zhao said. “The duty roster is there. The cord comes last.”

He Yu gathered up the rolled banner. The roll of cloth was heavier than it looked. The red cloth brushed the front of his coat and left a pale mark. Lin Zhao walked at his side with the clear bag. The left glove inside tapped lightly against her knee with each step.

Chapter Four: Struck Through

The lights in the service station were whiter than in the storeroom. Lin Zhao read out the dates on that page of the carbon-copy book, then asked Old Cen to bring out another claims ledger. December twenty-seventh: one green scarf, returned by family member He Yu, signed by He Xiulan. The item column had no glove.

He Yu looked at his signature from that year. His shoulders dropped an inch, then tightened again at once. “I did take the scarf back. The glove wasn’t taken off a chair back. Aunt Feng folded two days into one.”

“Then why didn’t you say the whole of it earlier?” Lin Zhao asked.

“I said the twenty-seventh, and your eyes still stopped on my coat.” He set the banner on the tabletop, his hand not leaving the cord. “Even if the dates line up, they don’t line up with you. You mended this glove at table four. The cloth bag was yours. My mother’s cabinet was the one I emptied. There really was no other hand in the middle, and still the things came apart.”

Lin Zhao pressed the clear bag onto the register so the brown stitches faced the light. “She wouldn’t let me explain. She said the watch had to be told to you in her own mouth, and that I was only to hand over the glove, not speak for her. After that her health kept failing, and the words were never finished. I took that sentence of hers as my reason not to knock. Later the cabinet was empty, and I thought the right glove and the ticket from Pei’s were both in your hands. You didn’t mention it, so I took it that you didn’t want the watch repaired. This spring, after the arrangements were done, I stood outside 502 with my hand raised, and I didn’t knock. I thought if you had seen it, you would go yourself.”

“What grated on me was the sound of my own voice when I asked about the watch,” He Yu said. “She didn’t argue. The day of the train I didn’t see her off. That night I saw one glove and felt she had taken things apart and left them everywhere. I stuffed it into the banner and didn’t open it. The next day I went on duty as usual. Later the storeroom was moved three times. I moved this roll of banner, and not once did I undo it.”

Outside, a firecracker gave a muffled report, far off. He Yu took out his phone and called the pharmacy. The person on the other end asked who would watch the window on the morning of the first. He raised his voice and said “I have something on” twice, gave the shift back, hung up, and set the phone face-down on the table.

Lin Zhao called her older sister. Her sister asked quickly: “You’re on duty again? Do I still have to buy the hot-pot ingredients myself?”

“Not on duty,” Lin Zhao said. “I’m taking leave. From the first through the third I won’t be at the service station.”

The other end was quiet for a little while. “Then where will you be?”

“Taking an old thing back where it belongs.” When she finished, she realized He Yu was standing across the table, able to hear every word. He did not step away, and he did not smooth it over for her.

She hung up, checked the substitute list with Old Cen first, and only then struck the two names off the duty roster in red. The strokes were heavy. The paper fuzzed. In the blank she wrote: Lin Zhao, He Yu, not on duty from the first through the third. He Yu signed. The characters were lighter than the line in the claims ledger from three years ago.

Old Cen coughed once in the doorway. “A quarter of an hour left. Are you undoing the roll or not?”

He Yu turned the knot in the hemp cord to face him. He had tied it himself, a double hitch, pulled short. He still recognized the hand. Lin Zhao took the left glove out of the bag and set it beside the knot, brown stitches up.

Chapter Five: The Wooden Clip

The hemp cord came undone and brought up a smell of damp. The red cloth opened layer by layer. Inside lay the right glove, the green yarn pressed flat, the fingertips still worn smooth. He Yu lifted it. His palm met a piece of stiff paper first.

The claim slip from Pei’s was dated December twenty-seventh, three years ago. Item: men’s mechanical watch. Customer: He Xiulan. The fee column was stamped “paid.” Underneath it said: no phone left, collect against this slip. A note was rolled inside the glove as well, the pencil’s pressure the same as on the cafeteria slip.

He did not hand the note to Lin Zhao. He read it himself, his voice close to the paper.

“Yu: the watch is at Pei’s. The money is paid. The ticket is in this one. I’ve asked Zhao to give you the left. I was afraid of delaying the trip, so I sent it for repair without talking it over with you. I’m not disposing of your father’s things. When I get to your sister’s, we’ll talk. Xiulan.”

The clock in the service station reached five minutes to four. He Yu set the old-cabinet key on Old Cen’s desk. Old Cen did not hurry him. He only stuck the seal along the edge of the emptied third shelf, then folded the red cloth back the way it had been.