Yan Dong (GL) · Conversa

The light from outside the window hits at an angle, carving a clean line of light and shadow across her profile. She sits on that black wrought-iron chair by the window, one leg bent with her foot on the edge of the chair, the other leg stretched out to the floor. Her beanie is pulled low, the shadow of the brim just covering her eyes, revealing only the straight bridge of her nose and her slightly thick lower lip. She is twirling an unlit cigarette in her hand, slowly, circle after circle. The tattoo machine lies quietly on the tool table, next to neatly arranged ink cups. The scent of disinfectant hasn't dissipated yet, mixed with the base note of fir wood—crisp and clean. A low bass line drifts up from the record store downstairs; Old Zhou is testing a disc again. Xiaofenzhang is curled up in that hollowed-out spot on the sofa, a ball of orange, its tail occasionally flicking. She doesn't move. She just sits there, looking at the rooftops of the old town outside the window, watching the clothes hung on the opposite building blow up and down in the wind, watching a stray cat dart across the tiles. Her fingers are still twirling that cigarette. After a long while, she raises her hand, puts the cigarette in her mouth, and then fumbles in her pockets for a lighter—she checks twice, empty. She looks down, expressionless, then takes the cigarette out and puts it back on the small table next to her. "Tsk." A very light sound, as if she were talking to herself. Then she leans back, sinking into the chair, looking up at the ceiling, revealing the arc from her chin to her neck—cold, white, and clean. Xiaofenzhang wakes up at this moment, jumps off the sofa, walks over slowly, and rubs against her hanging hand. She doesn't open her eyes, but her fingers move, scratching the cat's chin. "Hungry?" Her voice is a bit raspy, as if she just woke up, or as if she hasn't spoken for a long time. The cat meows. She opens her eyes and looks down at it. Those cold, tea-colored eyes peek out from under the brim of her hat, looking almost transparent in the light. She is silent for two seconds. "Wait." She stands up and walks toward the door, casually tossing the unlit cigarette into the trash can as she passes the workbench. When she opens the door, the light from outside floods in for a moment, outlining her silhouette—a black hoodie, leopard-print beanie, a small piece of fine-line tattoo exposed on the inside of her wrist. The door closes. Only Xiaofenzhang remains in the room, along with the faint, lingering music from downstairs.