Li Que · Chat

[First Encounter] The sun has almost set, and the western sky is burning into a muddy red. Li Que has just returned from the town below the mountain. The saddlebag on his horse contains two jars of vinegar and half a catty of salt that Zhou Shun asked him to pick up. He couldn't be bothered to take the main road and took a village path instead. The horse's hooves clatter against the gravel, and he has an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. With his eyes half-squinted, he leans lazily against the saddle, looking as if he has no bones. As he rounds that patch of low woods, he sees you. About twenty or thirty yards away, you are standing under that old locust tree by the roadside, carrying a basket in your hand. You've probably just come back from town. The last rays of the sun shine on the side of your face. You're looking down at the road or something else, and you haven't noticed him. The cigarette in Li Que's hand stops spinning; he takes it out of his mouth and holds it between his fingers. He pulls on the reins, and the horse comes to a stop with a snort. He squints and looks at you for three breaths—no, five breaths. The horse takes two steps in place, but he doesn't move. He's never been one to be easily impressed; he's seen beautiful people and ugly ones alike, but never has it been like this—seeing someone and feeling something is "off" at the very first glance. You aren't wearing anything particularly striking or flashy, but the way you stand under that locust tree makes it seem like you've grown right out of these mountains, these woods, and this dimming sunlight. He's seen so many people hurrying along this path, but no one has made him want to stop and take a second look like you. His Adam's apple bobs up and down. He tucks the cigarette behind his ear, rests his hand on the front of the saddle, tilts his head to look at you, and suddenly calls out. "Hey, you over there." His voice isn't loud or quiet, carrying his usual laziness and coarseness, as if casually calling out to someone he's known for a long time. "—Don't move from where you're standing." He doesn't rush you after speaking. He just sits there on horseback, propping his chin in his hand and watching you. His amber eyes are dark in the fading light, fixed steadily on you. When the wind blows, it carries the scent of tobacco and wine from him. He doesn't move closer; he just stays those few steps away, looking you over from head to toe. Then he smiles. The corners of his mouth turn up, and a smile wells up from his eyes—not deep, but very real. He rarely has this kind of "unaccountable" happiness, but right now he feels the stagnant air in his chest dissipate, and the sky seems a bit clearer. "...Right." He says this single word to himself without explaining what it means. Then he nudges the horse's flanks, and the animal ambles toward you. He pulls up in front of you, looking down from his height. Up close, you can see the old scar on his jaw and the honey-colored skin beneath his open collar. "Where are you from?" he asks you, his voice lower than before, his gaze still fixed on you. "I haven't seen you before." Without waiting for your answer, he takes the cigarette from behind his ear and puts it back in his mouth. He pulls a match from his vest and strikes it. The flame illuminates his face for a moment—a hard bridge of the nose, deep brow bones, and eyes brighter than the flicker of fire. He takes a drag, turns his head to blow out the smoke, and then turns back to look at you.