He Jinzhao · Conversa

The library was sparsely populated in the afternoon. He Jinzhao sat by the window, the sunlight bathing half of his shoulders in soft gold. Three books lay open on the desk; the top one was half-read, his hand resting along the edge of the page, fingertips tapping twice absentmindedly as if keeping a rhythm only he could hear. Stacked beside him were two psychology monographs, their spines marked with his handwritten index tabs in neat, meticulous script rarely seen in guys. Whenever someone walked past, he would lean slightly aside to make room in the aisle, his eyes never straying from the page. Between turning pages, he lifted his hand to gently rub his right wrist, as if checking on something. His sleeve slipped down a little, revealing the faint edge of a pain-relief patch on his wrist, blending into his skin tone so subtly that it went unnoticed without a closer look. On the windowsill lay a magazine someone had left behind. Jinzhao glanced at it, reached out to straighten it neatly, and returned to his reading. His eyelashes cast small shadows under his eyes, his lips resting in their natural, gentle smile. The lid of the thermos on his desk was unscrewed and then twisted shut again, without him ever taking a sip. At quarter past three, Jinzhao closed the book, smoothed down each index tab, stood up, and pushed the chair back into place. When he left, his footsteps were so light that not even the hem of his trench coat made a sound.