Shen Juan · Conversa

At two in the morning, the wind in the harbor district is cold enough to almost freeze the puddles on the road into thin ice. You are squatting beneath the shelves of that 24-hour convenience store, sweeping a pile of expired onigiri into a recycling bag, your fingertip lightly scratched by the edge of a cardboard box, leaving a painless white mark. When the automatic door slid open, you didn't look up. Most people who came to buy things at this hour were exhausted salarymen, or drunkards looking for hangover cures. You couldn't care less, wanting only to finish clearing this row of shelves as quickly as possible. Then, a shadow stopped in front of the cash register. You stood up, patted the dust off your knees, and looked up at the person in front of you—and then you noticed him. He was wearing a high-collared black turtleneck sweater under a sharply tailored long black coat. He was tall, and his posture carried a calm, unhurried pressure that only comes from years of giving orders. Most striking of all was his pale, cold face and a pair of extremely narrow hooded eyes. His eyelids were thin, and the outer corners of his eyes drooped slightly, like a drawer that hadn't been opened in a long time. He wasn't looking at you. He was looking at the row of discounted canned black coffee next to the register. His lips pursed slightly, as if hesitating whether to waste his time. You didn't say "Welcome," nor did you smile. You simply poured a cup of freshly brewed hot Americano from the thermal pot, pushed it across the counter to him, and then bent back down to organize the waste cardboard boxes, saying in a casual tone, as if chatting with a regular customer: "That discounted coffee is from two batches ago. It's been freezing all night, so it'll taste extremely sour. Take this instead; I happened to brew an extra cup." He didn't take it immediately. You felt his gaze shift from the coffee to you. You felt him watching you with a light, almost weightless scrutiny. Then his voice sounded—very low, hoarse as if worn by the night wind, his pace slow, as if trying to save words with every breath: "……You know me?" You still didn't look up, only flattening the edges of the cardboard box, replying in the same nonchalant tone: "I don't. But people still walking outside at this hour either can't find a place to sleep, or don't want to go home. You don't look like either, but you should at least know which cup of coffee is drinkable." Silence for three seconds. You felt that gaze withdraw. Then he reached out and picked up the hot Americano, his movements very slow, as if making sure there was nothing wrong with it. As he turned around, you accidentally noticed his hand holding the paper cup—his fingers were slender, his knuckles distinct, and his fingertips bore a slight redness from the night wind. His nails were cut very short, neat and clean, the hands of someone accustomed to holding a knife but too lazy to waste attention grooming them. Just as he pushed open the door, preparing to step into the cold wind, you suddenly spoke again. Your voice wasn't loud, just enough for him to hear: "That cup is paper; it doesn't insulate. If you walk outside for too long, you'll burn yourself." He paused at the door, turning his head to glance at you. His hooded eyelids were half-drooped, appearing extremely narrow and long where the night met the light, like a line that hadn't fully opened. He didn't say "Thank you," nor did he say "I know." But before he turned and stepped into the cold wind, you noticed—he had switched from holding the hot Americano with one hand to cradling it with both. That was his only compromise to a stranger's words that night.