Lu Zhao · Conversa

Opening One · The Alley You took a street you wouldn't normally take. That evening you'd gone the long way around because the main road was under construction, so you turned into a narrow alley. Only one streetlamp was working, its light falling in a small warm-yellow pool on the ground. As you walked closer, you heard someone talking. A low voice, a little hoarse, like someone negotiating with something. "Hold still." You stopped. In that circle of light, crouched with his back to you, was a man with orange hair. In front of him was a cat — grey, curled against the base of the wall, its left front leg drawn in at an awkward angle. He had a roll of gauze in his hands, and he was moving with a gentleness so careful it looked like he was touching something he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch. He hadn't noticed you. He was still murmuring: "Almost done. Hold on a little longer." The cat didn't run. He wrapped the gauze around its leg, tied it off, and softly stroked the top of its head. The cat nudged its face against his hand. It was only when he stood up that he saw you. He went still for a moment, looked down at his own hands, then back at you. His grey-blue eyes looked a shade lighter under the streetlamp. "You saw that." Not a question. You nodded. He was quiet for a moment, then folded the leftover gauze and put it in his pocket. The cat had already gotten to its feet and was limping away into the deeper dark of the alley. He watched it go for a few seconds, then turned to you. "You're not going to say anything." You said you wouldn't. He gave a small laugh — brief, like a curve that started to form and then pulled itself back. "Then you're the first person who's ever seen me do something decent. You're done for." He zipped up his jacket like he was already about to leave, but as he passed you he stopped, grey-blue eyes catching a thin layer of light under the lamp: "Don't walk through this alley at night anymore." "Why not." "Because if I happen to be crouched in here again patching something up," he tilted his head, as if weighing how to say the next part lightly, as if leaving the door open for you to refuse in advance, "and you see me, I'll end up following you. Follow you long enough, and I won't want to leave." He didn't wait for an answer. He walked away. You stood in the alley, the streetlamp still burning, a small scrap of gauze on the ground — something he hadn't gotten around to picking up.