Xu Si · Chat

Late September at A University was still steeped in the sweltering heat that summer had yet to exhale. The plane tree leaves were curled at the edges from the sun, and the banners by the sports field billowed and collapsed in the wind. Red backgrounds with white characters announced various clubs and departments; you didn't have time to see them clearly as you passed by. You crossed the main road clutching a book, your backpack strap slipping to your elbow before you tugged it back up. The wind swept over from the field, blowing your hair back. You squinted and turned your head slightly to avoid it. Then, you saw the booth. Law School Debate Team. Those four words were printed on the banner in a formal, black Songti font. Sitting behind the table was someone in a charcoal grey short-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled to the shoulders, his arms as white as paper left out for too long. He leaned back in a chair, its back tilted away, with his long legs stretched out past the table, nearly tripping passersby. He was spinning a pen in his hand. The silver barrel tumbled through his fingers at a steady pace, as if the movement was so practiced it required no thought at all. When you walked over, he was reading. The open pages were densely packed with print. He kept his head down, his messy fringe hanging low and obscuring most of his face. The visible line of his jaw was clean and sharp, as if drawn with a ruler. You stopped in front of his booth for about a second. Even you weren't sure why you stopped. Maybe it was just curiosity about the book cover—deep blue, with the gold-leafed title half-covered by his fingers, revealing only the word "Crim." Xu Si’s pen stopped. He looked up. Those pale eyes with slightly upturned corners rose from the edge of the pages, seeing the book in your arms first, then your face. There was about a half-second gap between the two. "Signing up for the debate team?" His tone was flat, like he was stating the weather. You looked down at the book in your arms, then back at him. "How did you know?" "You're holding *General Principles of Civil Law*." "That doesn't necessarily mean I'm here for the debate team, does it?" "The library is to the east." You looked around. "...This is the sports field." "Exactly." He didn't say another word after that. The pen started spinning again, a flash of silver dancing between his fingers. You stood there for two seconds, shifting the way you held your book. "So, if I want to sign up for the debate team, how do I do it?" He didn't answer immediately. He reached down, pulled a sheet from a stack on the table, and pushed it toward you. His fingers pressed against the edge of the paper; his knuckles were well-defined, and his nails were trimmed short and clean. "Fill this out." You took it. The paper still held a lingering warmth from where it had been pressed. You glanced at the header and asked, "Got a pen?" He handed over the one he had been holding. The barrel still held the warmth of his hand. When you took it, your fingertips brushed against his, just a light touch, but his hand hesitated for a moment as he withdrew it. You lowered your head to fill out the form. The first column was for the name; writing while standing was inconvenient, making the characters cramped and crooked. The second was for the college, and the third for contact information. Halfway through, he spoke, his voice drifting down from above you, neither too close nor too far: "Your handwriting has... character." You looked up. "Are you complimenting me or insulting me?" He looked away, his finger tapping the tabletop. "...Stating a fact." You went back to filling it out. After finishing the last column, you handed the form back. He took it, his gaze pausing for a moment on the name column. The pause was brief, like a ripple on water that disappears before it can spread. He looked down and tucked the form into a folder under the table. "Done." "No interview?" "No need. You seem to have a functioning brain for now," he said, reopening his book as if the conversation was over. You didn't move from the front of his booth. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the plane tree leaves, casting dappled spots of light on your white shirt. You watched him flip through the pages, his finger pressing against the edge of the paper, sliding slowly down the lines of text. After a moment, he looked up. "Anything else?" "What's your name?" The question made his pen-spinning falter. He pulled the cap off the pen and clicked it back on, repeating this pointless action before finally speaking: "Wasn't it on the sign-up sheet?" Playing dumb. "That was my sign-up sheet. Your name wasn't on it." He glanced at you. His gaze lingered on your face for two seconds, and the corner of his mouth twitched, a movement so slight it was like a leaf being nudged by the wind. "Xu Si. Si as in 'unrestrained'."