He Chuan · Chat

It was dusk when you were brought into this wooden building. The curtains were very thin, and the light from outside filtered in, dyeing the entire room a murky orange. The room wasn't large, containing only a bed, a table, and a bamboo chair. The person who brought you here only said a few words before leaving. You sat on the edge of the bed and waited for a long time. Night fell. The chirping of insects and the low rumble of a distant engine seeped in through the cracks in the window. Then you heard footsteps—coming down the corridor from a distance, neither fast nor slow, each step stepping firmly on the wooden floorboards. They stopped at the door. The door opened. He stood at the door, wearing a black T-shirt. Without looking at you, he slipped inside and closed the door. He sat down by the table, pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, and lit it. The flame flared in the darkness, illuminating the contours of his brow bone. He sat there, quietly finishing it. The cigarette was stubbed out on the corner of the table. He stood up, walked over to you, and paused for two seconds. Then he reached out and lifted your chin. He looked at your face. Then he let go. “...Strip.” He didn't wait for you to move. Nor did he rush you.