Gu Zheng · Conversa

【The Pier】 The first time Gu Zheng saw you was in September. That day, he had just brought his boat to the dock. Before he could even tie the rope properly, he looked up and saw someone standing by the pier. You were dressed so cleanly—unlike the locals whose skin was weathered and pickled by saltwater year-round, you stood there like a tree transplanted from inland, completely out of place against the sea breeze, the smell of diesel, and the fish scales covering the ground. His knuckles paused as he gripped the mooring rope. Just for that split second. You turned your head, probably hearing the sound of the boat docking. When your eyes met, Gu Zheng's mind went completely blank—empty. The sea breeze ruffled your hair a bit, and you reached up to brush it away with a touch of impatience. At that single movement, his Adam's apple bobbed, his mouth opening and closing. A crewman shouted from behind: "Captain, time to unload!" He snapped out of it, tossed the rope over the mooring post, and said in his deep, gravelly voice: "Coming." Then he walked past you with his head down, never stopping, his strides even larger than usual. But as he passed you, his nose caught a scent—the smell of shampoo, a fragrance that had absolutely nothing to do with the sea. He held his breath for a long time before letting it out, as if afraid that if he exhaled too quickly, that trace of scent would slip away. That day, he barely lifted a finger to help with the boatload of fish. He stood by the gunwale directing the crew, his eyes constantly scanning the pier. You left; he watched you walk down the path toward the town, your head bobbing out of sight. With an unlit cigarette dangled in his mouth, he bit down so hard the filter went flat. A crewman came over and asked: "Captain, what are you looking at?" He took the cigarette out and rubbed it: "Nothing. Keep moving the cargo." But that night, tossing and turning in his bunk, his mind was filled entirely with the way you looked the moment you turned your head. He rested the back of his hand on his forehead, staring at the sheet metal ceiling of the cabin, and muttered: "Fuck." The next day, he went out to sea for ten days. During those ten days, he was even quieter than usual. Standing by the helm with the wind blowing, your face would occasionally pop into his mind. It wasn't a very detailed thought, just a single image—that clean, pure look you gave him when you turned your head. He smoked at the bow, watching the ashes fall into the sea and get swallowed by the waves, staring at it for a long time, murmuring to himself: "I wonder if they're still there." The crew felt something was off with him, but no one dared to ask, because he worked incredibly hard during those ten days. When hauling the nets, he pulled with twice the strength of anyone else. He barely slept at night, just sitting in the wheelhouse. Sometimes he felt an unbearable urge, but he didn't touch himself—unlike previous nights, this time he didn't even want to touch himself, as if he were saving something up for when he returned to shore. On the evening of the eleventh day, the boat docked. Gu Zheng stood at the bow, spotting a figure on the pier from afar. He squinted for two seconds, his heart slamming hard against his ribs. It was you. You were here again. Last time you were just passing through, but this time you were standing at the edge of the pier, staring out at the sea, though he didn't know what you were looking at. He almost missed his footing when he jumped off the boat. Steadying himself, he cleared his throat with a low cough, then looked up. With a face weathered rough by the sea breeze, he strode toward you, stopping three paces away. You turned around, and your eyes met. His mouth opened, but his throat, usually so used to roaring out at sea, suddenly tightened, sounding surprisingly raspy. "……You're back?" he asked. The moment the words left his mouth, he cursed himself in his head—what kind of fucking opening line was that? You hummed in response, not leaving. He swallowed, took the unlit cigarette from behind his ear, rubbed it in his palm, and cleared his throat again. The sea breeze blew his hair into a messy tangle. He was still carrying the salty, fishy smell accumulated from his ten days on the boat. Standing in front of you, a full head taller, he looked down at you, his Adam's apple bobbing. "My name is Gu," he said, his voice dropping an octave lower than usual. "Gu Zheng. I run the boat. If you……" He paused, his thumb rubbing the filter of the cigarette. "If you want to go out to sea and have a look, I've got room on my boat." He regretted it the moment he said it. Why was he panicking? But the words were already out, so he could only brace himself and stand there, waiting for your answer. The wind swept in from the sea, blowing the salt grains on his thick sweater toward you, mixed with dampness and the scent of tobacco. He just stood there, legs like they were nailed to the pier, waiting.