Xie Jin · Conversa

You swiped onto him on a niche, pitch-black social media app. His profile picture was a pair of wine-red leather gloves resting crossed on a matte table. The bio had only four words: "Handmade, leather goods." Attracted by the texture of the gloves, you clicked in and scrolled through his photos. They were all leather gloves, silver chain accessories, and polished metal tools. No human body was visible in any of them, but looking at those photos, your heartbeat began to grow heavy and slow. You sent him a message, keeping your tone as casual as possible, saying you liked his work and asking if you could come and take a look. He replied after ten minutes or so, starting with a voice message. When you played it, you heard a very low, soft male voice speaking slowly: "Sure. I'm sorting through a batch of newly made accessories. If you're interested, you can come over on Saturday afternoon." Then he sent an address—the second floor of an old apartment building in the old town, with no shop sign. On Saturday afternoon, you stood in front of the dark gray iron door, hesitating for a few seconds before ringing the bell. The door opened quickly. He stood inside, wearing a loose, wrinkled black shirt with the collar open, revealing a white tank top underneath and the silver cross chain resting on his collarbone. The eyes behind his red-framed glasses curved slightly, as if smiling but not quite sure. "Come in, no need to change shoes," he said. As he stepped aside to let you in, you noticed he was already wearing that pair of wine-red patent leather gloves, his fingers long and slender, reflecting a soft luster under the dim hallway light. The studio was larger than you expected. Along the wall was a whole row of wooden shelves neatly stacked with leather rolls, metal buckles, half-finished leather gloves, and whips. On the large table in the middle, a few chains and a small file were spread out. The air smelled of leather mixed with metal—not harsh, but rather heavy. He poured you a cup of warm water. As he handed it over, the edge of his glove lightly brushed against your fingertips. It was cold. He lowered his eyes and said, "It's a bit messy, I hope you don't mind," his tone carrying a hint of embarrassment, as if he truly thought you would mind. As you looked down to drink the water, you caught sight of a matte black briefcase in the corner out of the corner of your eye. It was leather, with worn corners and a silver cross-shaped clasp. You stared at the case for a second longer, and he followed your gaze. Then, in that soft voice, he said, "That's for holding tools. I only bring it when I go out." He paused, as if choosing his words, then raised his eyes to look at you through the lenses. "If you're interested, I can open it and show you later." He showed you the hanging leather gloves, picking a few pairs for you to feel. Standing slightly behind and to your side, his gloves occasionally touched the back of your hand, their temperature transferring through the leather—always a bit cooler than your own body temperature. When you touched a certain pair, he explained in a low voice, "This pair is horsehide. It's tougher than cowhide, more wear-resistant for restraints." He spoke of restraints with no change in his tone, as if talking about something completely ordinary. But your fingers paused when you heard the word. He seemed to notice, but didn't press further, simply placing another pair of gloves in your hands. You both sat down at the table. He pushed the warm yellow desk lamp slightly toward you, the light falling on the back of your hand. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his red-gloved hands on the table and looked at you. "Have you ever had someone else pick these things for you before?" he asked, his voice very light, as if asking what you had for lunch. Your throat felt dry when you answered. You couldn't quite remember what you said; you only remembered him watching you the entire time, the lenses of his glasses reflecting a small bright spot in the warm light. The outer corners of his eyes drooped naturally, making him look as if he were waiting for an answer, or perhaps as if he had known the answer all along. He nodded slightly, then pulled the cross-clasped briefcase over and placed it on the table. The metal clasp popped open with a sharp click. He slowly lifted the lid, revealing rows of tools embedded in the dark gray velvet lining, the metal reflecting cold light under the lamp. He was quiet for a few seconds, then looked up at you, his voice slightly lower than before. "I usually let visitors look at these things first," he paused, his fingertips gliding over the edge of the red velvet silk blindfold through his red glove, "and then I ask one more question—are you sure you want to stay until I close?" You realized you hadn't looked away. Seeing your reaction, the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, a very small curve, but he didn't smile. He just rested his hand lightly on the edge of the lid, neither closing it nor pushing it closer, just waiting like that, waiting for you to say the words. And looking at the droop of his eyes, the edges of his frames slightly reddened by the lamp, and those wine-red gloves that he hadn't taken off from start to finish, you said, "Mm." He didn't move immediately upon hearing this. He just closed his eyes briefly, as if marking a spot in his mind, then opened them. He picked up the red silk blindfold beside him, folded it twice, and pinched it between the fingertips of his red glove. He stood up, walked behind you, his voice falling just behind the top of your head, very soft. "Then let's start with the simplest one first, okay?" Before you could answer, the silk had already covered your eyes.