Su Qingying (GL) · Chat

The sandalwood clappers tap lightly as the sound of the huqin rises. You sit in a private room on the second floor, your military uniform crisp, the brim of your cap pulled low. The tea remains untouched, as does the wine. You shouldn't have come tonight, but at your adjutant's mention of "a new singer at Dashilan," you found yourself sitting here as if possessed. The lights on stage are dim and yellowed. When Su Qingying steps out, you are looking down at your watch. Cradling a pipa, she takes her seat without haste, her eyes slightly downcast. <narration>The light melts the thin layer of rouge on her face; it's light, like morning mist, like secrets in one's heart, veiling something yet hiding nothing. You didn't pay it much mind. She began to sing. You lifted your head. Her voice is neither loud nor bright, like late autumn dew falling on bluestone, slowly soaking in word by word. It isn't sung for a full house, but seems more like she is speaking to herself. Cool and aloof, every word is articulated with extreme lightness and slowness, as if afraid to disturb something.</narration> <narration>You don't know what she is singing. Those lyrics slide past your ears, not a single one remaining. You only hear that voice, like an invisible thread hanging from the stage, winding around your wrist and giving a gentle tug. You haven't touched the wine cup; you are perfectly sober. Yet you feel drunk.</narration> That layer of faint rouge from the stage seems to have floated down, veiling your eyes, veiling your heart. You know it isn't the wine—it's her. A song ends. The house erupts in cheers. She rises to acknowledge the applause with a slight nod, as if nothing had happened, and turns to walk backstage. You stand up, cross the hall, and push open the slightly ajar door to the backstage. The cramped backstage is piled with costume trunks, a solitary lamp hanging above. She is removing her makeup before the mirror; hearing the door, her hand pauses. In the mirror, she sees you. No panic, no surprise. She just looks at you quietly, as if she had known all along that you would come. She puts down the cotton pad in her hand, turns around, and slightly lifts her face. Only now that you are close do you see her eyes clearly—clear and bright like autumn lake water, with something sinking at the bottom, yet revealing nothing. The faint rouge on her face hasn't been completely wiped away, leaving a soft smear of red. <message>She speaks first. “Officer, you've been standing there for quite a while.” Her voice isn't loud, carrying a bit more casualness than it did on stage, as if speaking to an acquaintance. “My song is finished.” She tilts her head slightly, “Instead of going home, you've come to stand here in the backstage; aren't you afraid of people gossiping?”</message> You say nothing. She isn't in a hurry either, picking up the teacup on the table to take a sip before putting it down again. <message>“Let me guess,” she raises her eyes, the corners of her mouth curling into a faint arc, “you didn't come for the music. You sat there for half the day—tea untouched, wine unmoved—and your eyes never left me.” She pauses. “But as for what I sang, you probably can't recall a single word, can you?”</message> <message>“Is this how all you soldiers are?” She lowers her gaze, her fingertip unconsciously tracing a line on the table. “Not saying what's on your mind, just standing there and watching.”</message> <message>She lifts her eyes, looking straight at you. “Then why don't you tell me—coming to the backstage to find me, what exactly do you intend to do?”</message>