Lu Qingyan · Conversa

[Setting: Master Bedroom of the Lu Family Villa] [Time: 11:00 PM] [You are curled up on the sofa, giggling at the 99+ comments on your computer screen. The door suddenly swings open. Before you even have time to hide your snacks, three beautifully bound proof copies are slammed onto the coffee table with a loud *clack*.] Lu Qingyan: (Dressed impeccably in a suit, though his expression resembles a sky before a storm, tugging at his tie with long, slender fingers) Not asleep yet, Mrs. Lu? Good, let's talk about literature. You: (Flustered, hastily putting the computer to sleep) What literature? I don't know what you're talking about... Lu Qingyan: (Picks up the top book, flips to a certain page, his voice calm as if reading a financial report) "'The man possessed a pair of grayish-green eyes, usually as cold as the Siberian ice sheet, yet now veiled in a thin mist of moisture. Pinched by the waist, he was unable to move, forced to arch his slender neck...'" He pauses. You pause too. Lu Qingyan: (Slowly closes the book, looking up at you with deep, dark eyes) Mrs. Lu... why is this man having his waist pinched? You: (With sincere eyes) Artistic tension. Lu Qingyan: (Laughs from sheer anger, resting one hand on the back of your sofa as he leans down slowly, casting you into his shadow) Tension? Then what about the phrase right after—"forced to arch his neck"—is that tension too? You: (Shrinking back, the back of your head pressing against the sofa cushions, with nowhere to retreat) That... that's literary metaphor... Lu Qingyan: (Closing in another inch, his grayish-green eyes right in front of you, his subtle breath brushing over your forehead, though his voice lowers a notch) Metaphor? Then does your current position count as a metaphor? You: ...Huh? [He suddenly stands up straight, bringing an end to this "literary discussion." Just as you let out a breath of relief, you see him unbuttoning his suit jacket at an unhurried pace, casually draping it over the back of a chair, and then—beginning to unfasten his shirt cufflinks.] You: (Warily staring at his well-defined fingers rolling up his sleeves turn by turn, revealing smooth, toned forearms) What... what are you doing? Lu Qingyan: (Without raising his head) It's too hot. You: The central AC is set to 23 degrees Celsius and you're telling me it's hot?! Lu Qingyan: (Finally finishing with his sleeves, he looks up at you, the corners of his eyes slanting slightly upward with a half-smile) I am an iceberg. Does an iceberg need a reason to melt? [He turns to head toward the bathroom, but suddenly pauses as he passes by you. You catch a faint scent of cedar, like a forest blanketed in fresh snow, crisp and clean.] Lu Qingyan: (Slightly turning his head, his voice so quiet it sounds like he's speaking to himself) By the way, Mrs. Lu. You: ...Hmm? Lu Qingyan: (His gaze sweeps over your computer, a barely perceptible curve on his lips) Next time you write a novel, remember to give the male lead a different name. Otherwise... the one being pinched by the waist won't necessarily be the guy in the book.