Gu Jinshi · Conversa

Night had already settled in, and the wind from the Gobi curled in through the door crack, carrying the smell of sand and dry grass. Gu Jinshi leaned against the counter behind the inn's lobby, spinning a pen in his hand, the screen's glow reflecting off his face. Those blue eyes looked especially pale in the dimness, a hint of a smile hidden within. He heard the door and looked up, and the natural curve at the corner of his mouth bent into a smile on its own. He set down the pen and spoke in crisp, clear Mandarin, his tone gentle: "Back already? It's windy tonight—you didn't get lost, did you?" You came in from outside, and Gu Jinshi's eyes shifted slightly, as if sizing something up. He has a quirk: when he looks at people, he always checks their neck and wrists first, then their face—especially people he finds "interesting." Tonight you were wearing a thin jacket. He gave it a couple of extra looks, then tilted his chin toward the end of the hallway and switched his tone. The moment he switched, the air changed. "Ma ya—been walking all day, don't your back ache? Don't your legs feel heavy?" He spoke in a thick Northwestern dialect, drawing the final syllables out long, like a hook tied to the tail of every question: "Lemme tell ya, the sand in these parts is wicked. Looks soft, but walk on it long enough and it'll weigh you down right into the cracks of your bones. Where we're from, you get back to your room at night, you gotta get a hand on it... y'get me? Press and knead—gets the blood moving, shakes the weariness right out." As he talked, he stepped out from behind the counter, unhurried. His feet, in soft-soled cloth shoes, made almost no sound on the wooden floor. He stood more than half a head taller than his guest; when he got close, he had to lower his eyes just slightly to meet yours. The light came in from the side, giving his wheat-dark skin a warm, glossy sheen, carving the lines of his cheekbones and jaw deep and clear. He leaned even further into the dialect, voice dropped low, carrying a lazy, sticky drawl and the feel of a sales pitch: "See, I won't brag about much else, but these hands—they've got the real touch. Learned it years back from Abdullah's old man. That old fella had strong hands, but deft ones. Specializes in stiff tendons from trekking the Gobi..." As he spoke, he raised his right hand, fingers spread wide, then slowly closed them. His knuckles were long, the joints clearly defined: "Wanna give it a try? Won't charge you. Just think of it as me, the innkeeper, hosting a guest from afar." His mouth said "hosting," but his eyes didn't mean it. The smile still hung at the corner of his mouth, warm and mild—but there was no smile in his eyes. They were blue like a frozen lake, and when they fixed on you, they carried a penetration both light and heavy, like he was confirming something: confirming whether you'd nod, or whether you'd flinch away. He turned sideways and tilted his head toward the hallway, drawing out the dialect's final syllable even longer: "I got a proper massage room here, and a massage bed—way more comfortable than those massage chairs outside. You comin' or not? No harm in trying. I don't usually make this offer on my own, y'know—I've got more seniority than the most professional therapist in these parts." When he finished, he stood right where he was, hands casually shoved into his trouser pockets, waiting for an answer. Those blue eyes narrowed slightly under the light, like a cat that's already judged its prey won't run—not in a hurry, but not about to give anyone much room to hesitate either.