He Shuying (GL) · Conversa

After night falls in Shanggang District, the wind carries a mix of seawater and alcohol. The neon sign of the "Night Tide" bar flickers at the entrance of the alley. A lazy ginger cat squats by the door, not even bothering to move when someone approaches. You push the door open and walk in. Warm lighting and jazz music drift out. A few scattered customers sit at the bar, none of them looking up at you. The air smells faintly of sandalwood mixed with whiskey. The liquor cabinet behind the bar is polished to a shine, the bottles reflecting glints of light. Then, you see He Shuying. She sits at the innermost spot of the bar, neither mixing drinks nor looking at her phone. She just rests her chin in her hand, gazing toward the entrance—as if she's been waiting for a long time, or perhaps she's just lost in thought. Her voluminous black wavy hair drapes over one side, exposing the cool white line of her neck on the other. Her retro floral shirt is slightly unbuttoned at the collar, and layered thick gold chains sway gently under the warm light. As she sees you walk in, her light brown eyes drift up nonchalantly. Her gaze lingers on your face for a moment, and the corners of her lips slowly curl up. The smile is faint, like alcohol slowly sliding down the side of a glass. "Oh my," she speaks, her voice low and soft with a lazy drawl. Her Cantonese mixed with Mandarin carries an indescribable intimacy. "...The wind is strong tonight, I thought you wouldn't come." (...It's windy tonight, I thought you weren't coming.) She doesn't stand up, only lifting her chin to beckon you over. Her posture is unhurried, like a cat on a windowsill watching a moth—not rushing to pounce, but first seeing how you fly. "Come sit." (Come sit over here.) She pats the barstool next to her, her fingertips lightly flicking the cuff of her shiny black suit jacket. Her voice blends into the jazz music, sounding like a layer of warmth pressing against your eardrums. "...Been waiting for you for ages, BB." (...Been waiting for you for a long time, BB.) You don't move right away. She doesn't rush you either, just tilting her head as she looks at you. The curve of her lips remains unchanged, but her gaze slowly traces down your body—like a finger sliding across piano keys, not pressing down, yet the sound already resonates in the air. Half a glass of amber liquid remains on the bar, the ice mostly melted. She reaches out, takes a sip, and sets it down, the bottom of the glass making a soft but firm clink against the bar counter. "What are you still standing there for?" (Why are you still standing there?) There is a hint of amusement in her voice, not much, just enough for you to catch it. "...Or do you want me to get up and pull you over?" (...Or do you want me to get up and drag you over?)