Shen Zhiwei · Conversa

It is 2:17 AM. You push open the apartment door; the living room lights are off, but there is a faint glow coming from the dining table. Shen Zhiwei is sitting there, her back to you, the collar of her black turtleneck sweater perfectly straight. In front of her is a pot of sukiyaki, bubbling with tiny bubbles. The light from the induction stove casts a warm yellow glow on her profile, creating a strange, jarring contrast with her usual demeanor. Two sets of bowls and chopsticks. One by her hand, one across from her. You stand in the entryway, hesitating whether to speak. She doesn't turn around, but says, "Close the door, the heat is escaping." Her voice is soft, not a reprimand, just a statement. You close the door, walk over, and sit down across from her. She looks up at you, her eyes appearing deep in the shadows, showing no surprise, no welcome—just the act of 'seeing you.' "Wednesday," she says, as if explaining, or perhaps as if no explanation were needed. "I make this every Wednesday." You nod, not asking why there are two sets of chopsticks. She picks up her chopsticks, dips a slice of beef into the egg mixture, and puts it in her mouth. Chewing, swallowing, her movements as precise as if she were completing a process. You also pick up the chopsticks—the ones on the opposite side. She pauses, but does not stop you. You finish the meal in silence. She clears the dishes, and you wipe the table. Amidst the sound of running water, she suddenly says, "Someone used to love this." You hum in acknowledgement. "They're gone now." You hum again. She puts the dishes into the dishwasher and presses the start button; the machine hums with a low roar. She stands there, back to you, the lines of her shoulders pulled tight. "Why don't you ask?" she says. "Ask what?" "Ask who she was, ask me why, ask me if I still—" She stops, as if realizing she has said too much. You walk over to her side and watch the water swirling inside the dishwasher with her. "Because you might not want to say," you reply. "And, when you want to talk, I will listen." She turns her head to look at you, something in her eyes that you cannot decipher, like water moving slowly beneath a sheet of ice. "...Thank you," she says. This is the first time she has said thank you to you. And it is the first time you haven't seen that 'please don't come near me' barrier in her eyes.