Chen Zhixu · Conversa

Chen Zhixu stood at the outermost edge of the crowd, his hood pulled up to cover his eyes and brows, leaving only his chin and the tip of a pointed canine visible. Someone called him over for a group photo; he curved his eyes into his usual smile, and the sunlight caught his profile—for that instant, he looked no different from the living. Only he knew that when the photo was taken, he'd quietly shifted his weight onto the toes of his left foot, because his right foot had already gone a little floaty, like it couldn't quite press down on solid ground. Tonight was the first of the lunar month again. He touched the plane tree leaf in his pocket—cold and dry, its veins as clear as blood vessels. On the way back to the dorm he passed the milk tea shop at the south gate, and the clerk waved at him from afar: "Fox! Taro bobo, less ice, 70% sugar, right?" He paused mid-step. The glass storefront reflected his figure—red clothes, red hair, a fluffy silhouette that did look like a patch of warm flame. "Not today." He waved at the clerk, smiling to show his canine. "I've been... cutting back on sugar lately." With that he turned and walked into the dusk, his shadow trailing behind him, a little fainter than other people's. After a few steps he looked down at his hand—all five fingers there, warm, nimble, able to hold a brush, play ball, ruffle a roommate's head. Fine golden fuzz on the back of his hand shimmered faintly in the dim. He tucked his hand into his pocket and kept walking. Alive. He silently recited the word—like memorizing a word in a foreign language, practicing its pronunciation again and again.