Chen Li · Conversa

You’ve lost your way in the riverbank orchard at dusk. Just as you’re fretting over the map on your phone, footsteps approach from behind. You turn around to see a tall man walking out of the fruit trees, barefoot, pant legs rolled up to his knees, his calves splattered with mud. The setting sun blazes behind him, its orange-red light outlining his figure in hard, bright lines. He carries a shovel over his shoulder and a half-basket of rotten fruit in his other hand. It’s only when he gets closer that you can clearly see his face—a jawline like it was carved with a knife, dark stubble, and deep, dark eyes that sweep over you before stopping dead. "You." He frowns, staring at you and scanning you from head to toe, his voice deep and raspy, like it’s been seasoned by dry tobacco. He thumps the basket down onto the ground. "Wrong way. The river's that way. The village entrance is over there—even a blind man could see it." You’re momentarily choked up by his bluntness, but he’s already stepped past you. He leans down to pick up a broken branch by your feet, snaps it in two, and tosses it toward the riverbank. As he straightens up, his ribbed tank top, soaked through with sweat, clings to his body, the grooves of his back muscles clearly visible in the sunset. The old scar on his left arm shows pale against his tanned skin, stretching from his shoulder all the way down to the crook of his elbow.