Song Shiqing · Conversa

Song Shiqing arrived at six-forty. The lock turned with scarcely a sound. He had always been like this—inserting the key, giving it half a turn before releasing it, letting the deft momentum of his wrist carry the rest. The door opened almost soundlessly. The entryway light was on. He bent to change his shoes, straightening his black derbies and turning the toes outward, placing them neatly beside that pair of plush slippers. He had arranged those slippers countless times—pastel blue, with two erect rabbit ears. The first time he saw them, the corner of his mouth twitched, though he said nothing; ever since, he habitually straightened them whenever he came over. "Precious, I'm here." His voice wasn't loud, drifting around the corner of the entryway wall with a soft lilt at the end. Today he wore that apricot-beige acetate shirt, the sleeves rolled up twice and bunched at his forearms. In his hands, he carried two supermarket paper bags—one with groceries, the other bulging. He angled his body slightly, shifting the bulging bag behind him as if hiding it from view. You came pattering over from the sofa in your slippers just as he set the grocery bag on the dining table. He turned to look at you, his glasses still on, the delicate half-rim silver frames catching a gleam under the entryway lamp. Seeing you running in such a hurry, he reached out a tentative hand to slow you down. "Easy, the floor was just mopped." Even as he said it, his palm settled naturally against your lower back, drawing you gently in against him. He dipped his head to inhale the scent of your hair, the tip of his nose brushing against it. "Washed your hair today? Smells nice." Only then did he take off his glasses, folding them and placing them into the small box atop the shoe cabinet—that box had been placed there specifically for his glasses by you. The first time he visited, he had tossed them onto the coffee table; later, you bought a little box and set it in the entryway. He understood immediately. Every time he stepped inside, he took them off and put them there, putting them back on only when he left. "I'm making you steamed sea bass tonight," he said, pushing his shirt sleeves up a bit further as he headed for the kitchen. "Along with stir-fried loofah with egg, and chilled black fungus. The rice is steaming in the cooker—I pressed start the moment I walked in." You followed him into the kitchen, watching him pull ingredients from the bags. The sea bass was already dressed and wrapped in plastic film. He removed the wrap and rinsed it under the sink, running his fingers along the fish's belly to ensure it was thoroughly clean before patting it dry with paper towels. He cut three diagonal slits on each side, rubbed in a pinch of salt and cooking wine, and tucked ginger slices into the cuts. His movements weren't hurried, yet every step was timed to perfection; the moment an item left the cutting board, the next was already in his hand. You leaned close beside him, your shoulder brushing his arm, watching him arrange the fish on a plate and scatter scallion lengths over the top. "Song Shiqing." "Mm?" He didn't look up, busying his fingers with aligning the scallions neatly. "Next week is my birthday." His hand paused—just for an instant, not even half a second—before continuing to arrange the scallions, his tone entirely even. "Oh. Which day?" "Wednesday." "Wednesday, huh." He set the fish plate into the steamer, put the lid on, and turned on the burner. Only then did he turn to face you, wiping his hands on his apron—you had bought that apron for him, printed with a Shiba Inu. The first time he put it on, he stared at himself in the mirror for ages before saying, "This dog looks quite a bit like Chen Fan," which had sent you into fits of laughter. Right now, wearing that same Shiba Inu apron, his expression remained perfectly solemn. "I'll check my schedule for Wednesday. Shouldn't be anything major. I'll come over to have dinner with you that evening." You pouted. "Just dinner?" He watched you for two seconds, a flicker of something darting through his eyes before quickly vanishing. Reaching out, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb tracing softly down the contour of your earlobe as his voice dropped a notch. "Then how do you want to spend it?" "I don't know," you muttered, nudging your forehead against his chest. It didn't budge—his chest was taut and rock-hard—so you nudged him again. "Either way, you have to be on your best behavior." He didn't reply, but the corners of his lips curved up slightly—that faint, subtle smile that took close looking to catch. He turned the flame down a notch, then began unpacking items from the bulging paper bag. You craned your neck to peek, but his hand shifted, blocking your line of sight. "Don't look." "What is it?" "Nothing. Head outside first, the kitchen fumes are heavy." When you lingered stubbornly, he used his elbow to gently guide you out, all while tucking the paper bag into the uppermost cupboard. He stretched onto his tiptoes, his shirt hem pulling free from his trousers and exposing a pale sliver of waistline. "Song Shiqing, what are you hiding?" "Nothing." He closed the cabinet door and turned around, his expression returning to its customary composure, as though the man who had just stood on tiptoe to stash something away was a complete stranger. "Go wait outside. Twenty minutes, that's all I need." Half-pushed and half-coaxed, you were nudged out of the kitchen. He slid the glass door shut behind him. Through the glass, you could see him standing sideways before the stove, spatula in his left hand, pouring oil into the wok with his right. While waiting for the oil to heat, he glanced down at his phone, swiped twice across the screen with his thumb, and slipped it back into his pocket. Twenty minutes later, he emerged carrying the dishes. The sea bass was steamed to perfection, the tender meat slipping easily from the bone at the nudge of a chopstick; the stir-fried loofah and egg held crisp greens and bright yellows, and the wood ear mushroom salad looked refreshing, garnished with a sprinkle of cilantro—remembering that you disliked cilantro, he had placed that garnish separately in a small dish for himself. "Have a taste." Sitting opposite you without touching his own chopsticks, he watched you take the first bite of fish. As you chewed, his eyes remained fixed on your mouth, waiting until you swallowed before asking, "Too bland?" "Just right." "Good, then." Only then did he pick up his chopsticks and take a bite of the mushrooms. He ate briskly, yet without gulping down food; his rhythm was simply efficient, his lips closed as he chewed, never making a sound. Halfway through the meal, it crossed your mind again. "Did you really not forget my birthday?" Swallowing his food, he looked up at you. "When have I ever forgotten anything?" "Hard to say. Last time, you mixed up the things I asked you to buy with what Chen Fan needed." "That was Chen Fan's fault," he replied without batting an eye. "He wrote it on the wrong line." "Stop shifting the blame onto him." He didn't argue further, looking down to eat his fish, the faint trace of a smile lingering at his lips. When the meal was finished, he cleared the dishes. You slumped in your chair, unwilling to move, so he carried the bowls into the kitchen alone. The tap ran with a rushing sound, the clink of porcelain muffled and gentle—he washed the dishes like a burglar, terrified of making a sound. Resting your chin on the dining table, you watched his back through the kitchen door. He inverted the clean bowls onto the drying rack, wiped the counters clean with a rag, washed his hands, and dried them with a paper towel. As he stepped out, he clicked off the kitchen light, leaving only the warm yellow pendant lamp glowing above the dining table. Pulling out the chair beside you, he sat down, resting one arm over the backrest as he turned sideways to look at you. "On your birthday, I'll come early." "How early?" "Five-thirty. Maybe earlier." He paused in thought. "I'll make you a bowl of noodles. Hand-rolled noodles. I've been practicing." You blinked in surprise. "When did you practice that?" "A while ago," he answered vaguely, his eyes holding a gentle warmth as he looked at you. "They're not rolled very well. Don't look down on them." "Song Shiqing," you said, tilting your head at him, "did you prepare something else?" He raised an eyebrow. The gesture was subtle, but to your eyes it was plain as day—the more this man tried to hide something, the more nonchalant he pretended to be. "We'll talk about it then." Reaching over, he used his thumb to brush away a stray grain of rice clinging to the corner of your mouth. Instead of pulling away, his hand lingered, cradling your cheek as his thumb stroked gently against your skin. "Little tyrant, what's the rush?" When his voice dropped low, it carried an airy breathiness, the ends of his sentences slack and unhurried—a world away from the man reciting reports at formal meetings. You reached out to grab his sleeve, but with a flick of his wrist he caught your hand, his fingers interlacing tightly through yours, refusing to let you pull back. "Tell me now, come on." "Not telling." He brought your hand to his lips, his mouth lightly brushing against the knuckle of your index finger—a soft, deliberate touch, like pressing a seal. "Wait until Wednesday." Then he let go of your hand, standing up to fetch his coat from the entryway. As he passed the cupboard, he blocked the door with his shoulder, as if you possessed X-ray vision. "I'm leaving," he said, slipping on his coat and looking back at you. "Lock the doors and windows tight, and text me before you go to sleep." "You're not staying tonight?" "I have a meeting tomorrow morning at seven-thirty." He paused at the door, bending down to straighten the rabbit slippers, aligning the toes outward in the exact direction you faced when coming home. "I won't leave Wednesday night." He said this without looking back, his voice muffled in the collar of his coat, but you caught the faint flush dusting the tips of his ears.