Shangguan Mianyu · Conversa

The July heat in City C was unbearably intense. The evening breeze drifted over from the asphalt road along the river, carrying a mix of industry and greenery, rustling the camphor leaves of Perfume Bay. Mianyu stood at the door of her home, holding a white paper box in her hand. The key slid into the lock and turned halfway—the door opened on its own. You had clearly heard her footsteps. You were standing at the end of the entryway, a book in your hand. The moment you saw her, your expression paused noticeably, and you instinctively glanced at the clock on the wall. 5:30. "Home so early?" Mianyu didn't look up. She bent down, set the paper box on the low table by the shoe cabinet, then turned sideways to undo the thin buckle at her ankle. Her fingers pressed against the buckle clasp, pausing for a beat. Today, she was wearing a pair of cream-white stiletto heels—shoes she had wiped spotless before going out, now coated with a thin layer of dust, meaning she had walked a lot, far more than the stretch from the subway station to home. She slipped the shoes off, carried them with two fingers, and placed them on the lower shelf of the shoe cabinet, lined up neatly beside the other pair. As she straightened up, she glanced down at her ankle. The back of her heel had been rubbed slightly red, as if she'd been walking all day. "I wanted to give myself a day off today." Her voice was soft when she said it, her tone flat, like she was talking about something trivial. But she said "day off" instead of "off work"—you caught that. She never said "day off." She only ever said, "I finished early today." The book in your hands was still open, not closed. You watched her walk into the living room, barefoot on the tiles, strands of her silver-white hair loosened by the wind slipping through the window gap. She walked over to the sofa, stacked the scattered books on the coffee table into a neat pile, and capped an uncapped ballpoint pen before putting it back in the pen holder. She was tidying things up. But she never did that—her first move after coming home was always to sit down and take a sip of water. Today, she didn't. "What do you want for dinner?" She turned around to look at you, with a very faint smile on her face. The smile was real, but not the fully relaxed one she usually had—the corners of her mouth curved, but the area around her eyes didn't move along with it. You didn't answer. You looked at her, your gaze landing on the pale pink short-sleeved shirt she had on. It was the one she had worn out in the morning; the afternoon sun had already pressed creases into the fabric. But you didn't see her bag. You didn't see her laptop either. She noticed your gaze, followed it down to look at her own empty hands, then lowered them, letting them hang at her sides. She didn't explain. "There's still pork ribs in the fridge," she said, her tone straining toward the everyday. "The box I bought yesterday hasn't been touched. Do you want sweet and sour—" She stopped. Not because she was waiting for your answer, but because she suddenly didn't know how to finish the sentence herself. She stood in the small gap between the sofa and the coffee table, silver-white hair spilling over her shoulders, fingers curling slightly, then loosening. The light outside was shifting from pale orange to gray-blue, and the outline of her profile softened in the dimming light—but also blurred, just a little. "Sweet and sour." You finished the sentence for her. She froze for a moment, then nodded lightly. "Mm." She turned and headed for the kitchen. Passing the coffee table, she paused a step, reached out, and touched the edge of the white paper box—it was from that bakery, you recognized it in a single glance. A week ago, you had passed by there and said, "Their tiramisu is pretty decent." "I'll put this in the fridge," she said without looking back. "We'll have it after dinner." The kitchen light came on. The faucet was turned, water rushing onto the dishes with a clamor before quickly being turned down into a thin stream. She stood in front of the counter, back to the door, head down, washing something. Her movements were slow, as if letting the water carry away the things she didn't want to say out loud. You walked to the kitchen doorway but didn't go in, leaning against the doorframe, watching her back. When she folded the dishcloth and laid it over the faucet, you spoke. "How did you get home today?" Her fingers paused midair. She knew what you were really asking—on a normal day, when she came home from work, she had a laptop in her bag, keys in her hand, her shoes wouldn't carry such a thick layer of dust, and her hair wouldn't be this loose from the wind. She was the kind of person who smoothed every strand of hair before leaving the house. She didn't answer right away. She shook the water off her hands, then turned and leaned against the edge of the cabinet, crossing her arms loosely over her chest, her gaze falling on some intangible spot on the floor. "I sent the car in for maintenance. Took the subway, then walked a bit." She finished, then raised her eyes to look at you. "Didn't get to buy groceries—my hands were full with the cake." Her tone carried a hint of half-hearted complaint, as if deliberately steering the topic toward something lighter. But her eyes were a little more moist than usual—she wasn't crying, just a little brighter than normal. She looked away and reached for the fridge door. "I'll make a tomato and egg stir-fry too." Her voice came from behind the fridge door, a little muffled. "You said you wanted it last time, I never made it." The fridge door closed with a dull thud. She was holding a tomato and three eggs, and set them down on the counter before looking at the bundle of scallions, as if thinking about how to peel them. You stood at the door, not pressing further. You knew something had happened to her today—but since she didn't say it, you wouldn't force her to. She was always like this: when she couldn't hold it in anymore, she'd come home early, find an excuse to hide in the kitchen, cut the vegetables perfectly neat, scrub the pots spotless, and only when those emotions had drifted away with the cooking smoke would she walk out as if nothing had ever happened. "Is there enough rice?" you asked. She tilted her head and glanced at the corner of the cabinet. "Yeah. I only bought five pounds last week." She turned on the flame. Blue fire licked up, and the bottom of the pan heated quickly. Oil sizzled as it went in. Cooking smoke rose, and the kitchen gradually filled with a warm, cozy aroma that diluted some of the evening's unnameable gloom. An hour later, both the sweet and sour ribs and the tomato and egg stir-fry were done. "Bring them to the table," she said. "Careful, hot." She watched you take the dishes, then lowered her head and wiped her fingers with her apron. She wiped for a long time, scrubbing every finger clean.