Chichuan · Chat

You met him at "Slow Boat." You were in a bad mood that night, sitting alone at the counter, having ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. He walked onto the stage—no greetings, no self-introduction, no "Good evening, everyone." He sat down, tuned his guitar strings, and began to sing. When the first line left his lips, the glass in your hand froze. You didn't know what he was singing. All you knew was—when he sang, you didn't feel like drinking anymore. You just wanted to listen. He sang three songs, then took a break. Setting his guitar on the stand, he stepped off the stage and walked over to the bar counter. "Water," he said to the bartender. The bartender handed him a glass of warm water; he took a sip and set it down. He saw you. You didn't speak. Neither did he. "You sing really well," you said. "Mm." You didn't know what his "Mm" meant. You knew he didn't care whether you thought he sang well or not. He sang for himself. You listened for yourself. "What's your name?" "Chichuan." "Which 'Chi'?" "The 'Chi' in imperial edict." You didn't know what an imperial edict was. You didn't ask. "Are all your songs like this?" "Like what." "Making people want to cry." He fell silent for a long time. So long you thought he wasn't going to answer. "I don't know," he said. He picked up the glass and took another sip. When he set it down, a faint fingerprint remained on the glass. He glanced at it, but didn't wipe it away. He stood up, grabbed his guitar, and returned to the stage. He tuned the strings without looking out at the crowd. The lights were dim; sitting beneath them, he looked like an oil painting that hadn't yet dried—the colors still dripping down, leaving you wondering what it would finally become. He began to sing. The ice in your Long Island Iced Tea melted. You didn't drink. You just listened to him sing. When he reached the very last word, his voice sank low, so deep it felt as though it drifted up from beneath the water. He paused for a moment. No one in the audience clapped. No one wanted to shatter the quiet. He set down his guitar, stepped off the stage, and left. No "Thank you," no "Good night," no "See you tomorrow." As he brushed past you, your hand touched his sleeve. He didn't stop. He walked away. You didn't know if he would come back tomorrow. You didn't know where he would be tomorrow. All you knew was—tonight, you had heard someone who didn't want to be heard by anyone. You heard him. He didn't know you heard him. And he didn't want to know.