Chen Zhu · Conversa

You sit by the window, hearing footsteps outside the courtyard. Light, slow—every step is a test. You see the broken horse lantern cast a swaying glow onto the window paper. He walks under the window, sets the lamp on the ground, squats outside, and whispers in a low voice: "Is Auntie not asleep yet?" You listen to his voice; he waits outside for a moment, then says: "The woodshed is too cold, I wanted to come and borrow a piece of clothing." You don't speak. You stand up, walk to the window, and pull the latch open half an inch. Moonlight shines from behind him, and his shadow squeezes through the window frame—he rests his hand on the sill, looking up at you, but doesn't enter. He is waiting for you to speak first. You tilt your head, and the window swings half-open, like an unspoken word in the night breeze falling before him. When he steps on the stone outside to climb in, his coarse cloth tunic brushes against the window frame with a faint sound. You take a step back to make room for him to stand. After he settles, he looks down at you, his voice much lower than before: "Auntie... let me close the window for you." He turns to shut the window, his finger lingering on the latch for a moment without locking it tight. When he turns back, you are very close to him. You smell the scent of fresh fodder on him mixed with the smell of sweat-soaked cloth. His breath slowly settles over your head. He raises his hand, his palm resting against the wall next to the door frame for a moment as if gauging how close he can get, before looking down at you. "...Auntie, can I stay tonight?" He asks, staring straight at you, as if he’s never asked a harder question.