Shen Zhiyun · Chat

Rain falls silently. The first rain in Beijing after the onset of autumn wasn't heavy, but it was enough to make the bluestones of the entire hutong oily and bright. The streetlights had just come on, their halos blurring in the rain like looking at old-fashioned gas lamps through frosted glass. I was waiting for a late friend in a tea space called "Jian Shan" deep in the hutong. It was a low-key place, almost impossible to find, with no sign, only a crooked locust tree reaching out from the courtyard wall. It's said the owner is an antique enthusiast who opened the shop not for business, but to have a quiet place to meet people. I sat by the window, and the pot of aged white tea in front of me had been refilled three times. My friend sent a message saying it would be another twenty minutes, so I used those twenty minutes to observe the people and things in the shop. Then the door was pushed open. The copper bell hanging on the door made a very soft sound, as if touched by the wind rather than pushed by a hand. I looked up just as she walked in. First, her figure. Tall, very tall. She stood at the door closing her umbrella, her head slightly lowered, making the lines of her neck and shoulders exceptionally clear. A few rain spots stained her light gray trench coat; she brushed them off gently, a subtle movement, as if the small act of brushing away dust was not worth mentioning. In her hand was a long-handled black umbrella with a bamboo handle, which looked unexpectedly good in her hand. She took a few steps closer, and I finally saw her face. It wasn't the kind of look that stuns at first sight, but it was enduring. Her features were cool-toned, and her skin still revealed a porcelain-like whiteness under the warm lights of the tea room. She nodded slightly toward the counter; the owner clearly knew her, smiled, and without asking what she wanted, turned to brew tea. She sat at a table further inside, diagonally across from my position, about three or four meters away. I should have looked away. It's impolite to stare at a stranger for too long. But I didn't. Not out of any offensive intent, but because the way she sat there somehow made it impossible to look away. She took off her trench coat and draped it over the back of the chair. Underneath was a very simple plain shirt and well-draped trousers. It wasn't a forced style, but the fabric fitted the lines of her body—narrow shoulders, thin waist, the curve from waist to hip flowing as if drawn. Her posture was upright but not stiff; it was relaxed, the kind of relaxation only someone extremely comfortable with their own body would have. Flat leather shoes. She was wearing a pair of flat leather shoes. A woman standing 175cm tall, wearing flats, yet without any sense of shrinking. I suddenly realized that her aura wasn't "撑" (propped up); it grew from her bones. The owner brought over a cup of tea. She took it, nodded slightly, and said something. Her voice was low, I couldn't hear it clearly, only saw the owner smile and nod before turning back to the counter. She picked up the teacup, didn't drink immediately, but just warmed it in her palms, her gaze falling outside the window. The rain was still falling, pitter-pattering on the leaves of the old locust tree in the courtyard. A very old cello piece was playing in the shop; I hadn't heard it before, but it was deep and beautiful. She listened quietly. I looked at her profile and thought that this person probably wouldn't wait for someone. I've seen many kinds of expressions of people waiting: irritable, bored, frequently checking their phones. She wasn't like that. Sitting here, it was as if this tea room was a part of her; time moved around her, rather than her being dragged along by time. About five minutes passed, maybe ten, and my friend still hadn't arrived. But her phone rang. She glanced at the screen, picked it up, her voice low and clear: "Mhm. I'm here." Pausing, she added, "If there's traffic, we can reschedule. No rush." The person on the other end seemed to say a long string of words. She listened, the curve of her mouth twitching slightly—not quite a smile, but not cold either, more like a kind of indulgent helplessness. "Okay," she said, "Take your time. I'll wait for you." After hanging up, she placed her hand on the table, her fingertip lightly tapping the rim of the cup twice, then she picked up the tea and finally took a sip. The three or four meters between us suddenly became exceptionally concrete. It was as if there were an invisible thread in the air, one end tied to the steam of the tea by her hand, the other snagged on a place in my chest that is rarely touched. I lowered my head and took a sip of my own tea, which had already gone cold. When I looked up, I found that her gaze had turned toward me at some point. We made eye contact for about a second and a half. She was the first to look away, her神色淡淡的 (expression indifferent), as if this second and a half of eye contact was just one of countless insignificant events today, like the rain falling outside. It took me much longer than a second and a half to turn my head away. My phone screen lit up, a message from my friend: "Arrived, parking now." I let out a breath and planned to get up and pay. When I passed her table, my steps faltered for a moment. It wasn't intentional; it was a physical reaction preceding my brain. She was flipping through a book, taken out of her bag at some point, the corners of the pages slightly frayed. I couldn't see the cover, only her fingers pressing on the pages—her nails were clean and trimmed short. I continued walking and paid the bill at the counter. When I pushed open the door, the copper bell rang again. The sound of rain suddenly drew near, and the chill wrapped around me. I opened my umbrella and walked toward the hutong entrance, bumping into my friend who was running over hurriedly. They apologized repeatedly, and I waved it off, saying it was fine. After a few steps, I looked back. Through the glass window of the tea room, I could see her still sitting in that spot, head down reading, unmoved by the wind and rain. The warm yellow light enveloped her, like a painting framed in the wrong era. My friend followed my gaze and asked, "Know her?" "I don't." "Then what are you staring at her for?" I didn't answer. The rain pattered on the umbrella surface. I turned around and continued walking. The hutong was very dark, with only a few scattered streetlights. The air smelled of rain-soaked earth mixed with the bitterness of autumn locust leaves. The tea room called "Jian Shan" grew further and further behind me, finally turning a corner and disappearing completely. I suddenly remembered a piece of calligraphy hanging on the wall; it was Wang Wei's verse: "I walk to where the water ends, and sit to watch the clouds rise." I should have taken a photo of it.