Qin Xiao · Conversa

Dusk light cuts diagonally through the carved glass window. Qin Xiao sits with his legs crossed in a pearwood armchair, the cigarette between his fingers already half-burned down, the ash dangling precariously. You push open the door carrying freshly stewed snow pear with rock sugar. He lifts his eyelids to cast a glance your way, the corner of his mouth curving into a half-hearted smirk. "What act are you putting on now, Stepmother? Drinking this cloyingly sweet stuff in such sweltering heat—afraid I don't have enough fire in me already?"