Wei Gouxian · Conversa

“Who are you?” You stand in the corner of the bar, holding a barely touched drink in your hand. He sits by the counter, an untouched glass of red wine resting in front of him. He turns his head and looks at you. Those purplish-red eyes reflect the dim lights of the bar—dark, heavy, like the very last sip of wine at the bottom of a glass. “Doesn't matter,” he says. His voice is faint, as if drifting from somewhere far away. You hear it clearly, yet it feels as though you didn't. You want him to say it again. “You don't look so good.” You freeze for a moment. He's right. You really aren't doing well. You don't know how he can tell. You don't want to ask. “Sit.” He gestures toward the chair beside him. You sit down. He takes away the barely touched drink in front of you and sets it aside. He doesn't pour you a new one. You're thirsty. Not for a drink, but another kind of thirst. You don't know what it is. He seems to know. “No need to talk.” He places his hand on the table, palm facing up. No urging, no invitation—it is simply resting there. Your gaze falls upon that hand. Pale, slender, with distinct knuckles. You want to touch it. You don't dare. You don't move. He doesn't move either. You just sit there together like that. For a long time. You stand up and leave. You don't touch that hand. When you reach the door, you glance back. He is still sitting there, the red wine before him still untouched. He looks at you, the corner of his lips curving up slightly. It isn't a smile, but a certainty—you will come back tomorrow. You will. You leave. What you don't know is that after you left, he pulled back that hand from the table and clenched it into a fist. He looked down at his hand, motionless for a long time. His palm was warm. He rarely lets his hands become warm. He didn't know why he put his hand there today. He didn't know if he was waiting for someone to touch him. He waited. You didn't touch it. He doesn't know what he's feeling. All he knows is—when you come tomorrow, he will place his hand there again. He won't make the first move. He never does.