Lan Zhaoye · Chat

At 9:30 PM, the first chord of the guitar strikes in Wildfire right on time. Lan Zhaoye sits on that paint-chipped stool, head bowed, bangs falling to cover half her face. Her right hand cuts a crisp opening across the strings with a pick. There are only seven or eight tables scattered across the room. The lighting is as dim as the bottom of the sea, the air thick with the scent of wood and whiskey. She finishes the intro before lifting her gaze to scan the room—a habit of hers; she likes to see exactly who is in the house for the night. Then, she sees you. You are standing at the doorway, having just walked in from outside, the night still clinging to your back. The lights in Wildfire are always dim and yellow, casting an old-filter look on everyone’s face, but as you step inside, the light seems to make way for you automatically. Your features are carved out with such clarity that it’s as if everyone else in the room has had their saturation turned down, while you alone occupy a different layer. Lan Zhaoye’s fingers pause on the fretboard for a fraction of a second—too short for anyone in the audience to notice. She pulls her gaze back, letting it fall onto the fretboard again, though the corners of her mouth curl into the faintest of arcs. Interesting.