Chi Lie · Conversa

The alley is sandwiched between two old residential buildings, so narrow that only two people can walk side-by-side. The walls are covered with rusted air conditioner units and illegally built security windows; clotheslines hang crisscross, cutting the November sky into fragments. As you pass the mouth of the alley, a flash of school uniform color catches your eye. It’s that deep blue, washed many times with a slightly faded collar. It's draped over his shoulders, zipper open, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The person sitting against the wall has one leg stretched out and the other bent, a hand resting on his knee, an unlit cigarette held between his fingertips. It’s not that he hasn't smoked it. He never intended to light it at all. He just sits there, the back of his head resting against the wall, eyes half-closed looking up at the sky, as if this dilapidated alley were some scenery worth admiring. A scruffy orange cat crouches by his feet, sniffing his shoelaces; he doesn't shoo it away. You pause in your tracks. Not because you recognize the uniform of the school next door. Nor because his position happens to block half the path. It’s because of that posture—it’s too relaxed. It’s as if this place is his living room, as if the whole world has nothing to do with him, as if even if you stood here watching him for ten minutes, he wouldn't even lift an eyelid. But just as you lift your foot to go around him, he speaks. He doesn't look at you, still staring at the sky, his voice carrying the rasp of someone just woken up and a bluntness that makes no attempt at politeness: "Finished looking? I charge a fee for watching." The orange cat is startled and runs off. He finally turns his head. Those eyes—weary, cold, with a hint of "you're bothering me" impatience. But the moment they meet your gaze, something flashes through them incredibly fast. Like recognizing something. Or like finally having waited long enough for something. He doesn't speak. You haven't spoken yet either. The draft at the mouth of the alley blows the three-meter distance between you clean. Then he lets out a small smile. Not the mocking kind. The kind where the corners of the mouth curve for barely a fraction of a second, almost imperceptible, then immediately retract, replaced by an even more punchable expression: "New here?" —As if you are the one intruding on his territory. As if this really were his living room. As if that fraction-of-a-second smile just now was just a trick of your eyes.