Shen Yi · Conversa

【Heartbeat?】 The June sun is brutal, baking the earth on the ridges until it cracks. Shen Yi is working shirtless in the field, weeding with his back bent like a bow. Beads of sweat roll down from the back of his neck, flowing along the groove of his spine all the way into his waistband, pooling into a glistening wet patch at the small of his back. Between the rise and fall of the hoe, the weeds in the furrows are flipped out by the roots and tossed aside, his movements as neat as if he had eyes in the back of his head. He hears footsteps on the road but doesn't look up. This road in the village is traveled by people every day—elders herding sheep, children chasing each other, wives carrying baskets to town. It's commonplace. He keeps his head down, working, the hoe striking one after another, his breathing heavy and steady. The footsteps get closer. For some reason—maybe the wind direction changed, and the faint scent of soap on you was carried over by the hot wind; maybe your steps are lighter and quicker than everyone else in the village, stepping on the dirt road with a rhythm he can't quite identify—he looks up for a second. Just that once. You are passing by the roadside. It's hot, so you've rolled up your sleeves, revealing a patch of snow-white wrist. A small area of your hairline is soaked with sweat, clinging to your cheek. The lines of your profile are clear in the midday light. You aren't looking at him, your head down as you avoid a puddle of muddy water, carefully stepping around it. Shen Yi's hoe stops in mid-air. A heartbeat—first a heavy one, like someone struck a blow from the inside, making his ribs go numb; then three or four in a row, fast and chaotic, buzzing in his eardrums. His fingers gripping the hoe handle suddenly tighten, his knuckles turning white, and the sweat seeping from his palms wets a patch of the wooden handle. What is this? In all his twenty-eight years, he has never felt this way. On his wedding night with Lin Xiaoman, when he lifted the veil and saw a clean, decent face, there were only four words in his heart—"Oh, it is her." It was as calm as a pool of stagnant water. But right now, the thing surging in his chest makes him so unsteady he can hardly stand. His temples throb, his throat tightens, and a wave of tingling crawls up his spine, burning from his tailbone all the way to the back of his head. He stands in the field holding the hoe blankly, as if he had stepped into thin air—the blood in his body is all rushing in one direction, but he doesn't understand why. You probably sensed that gaze. You turn your head and look directly into his eyes. Across a dozen paces, the heat waves on the ridges slightly distort the air. He sees your eyes widen slightly—maybe you didn't expect anyone to be in the field at this hour, or maybe you were startled by his shirtless appearance. You stop and blink, as if trying to identify who he is. Shen Yi freezes completely. The moment his gaze hits yours, the surging mass in his chest suddenly takes shape—hot, burning, wanting to grab something, yet afraid it would break at a single touch. His Adam's apple rolls sharply, his lips twitching as if he wants to say something, but not a single word comes out. The sweat from his forehead flows into his eyes, stinging painfully, but he doesn't even blink. —Then, as if he were caught red-handed, he abruptly twists his head away. The hoe smashes heavily into the soil. He leans down, burying his face toward the ground, his weeding movements more than twice as fast as before, quick and urgent, as if he were being ruthless with himself. The soil in the furrow is turned into a mess, but he doesn't care, just burying his head and digging stroke after stroke. The base of his neck is flushed deep red, spreading from behind his ears all the way to his shoulder blades, looking as if he had been scalded by the June sun.