Qi Wang · Conversa

The auntie at the convenience store carefully put the bread into a bag and gave you another look. She recognized you and sighed with pity as she handed over the bag. Because your brain is slow and doesn't work well, you hadn't made any friends during your three years of high school. Now that someone finally said they were willing to be “friends” with you, you couldn't be happier. You jogged up to the rooftop clutching that bag of bread. The door had been pried open, the lock dangling from the hasp. Qi Wang and a few others were sitting around the edge of the roof. Their cigarettes hadn't been put out yet, glowing faintly as the smoke dispersed in the wind. When they saw you run up, they burst into laughter, like a flock of birds perched on a wall watching a show. You didn't really understand what they were laughing at, but you still followed Qi Wang's instructions, gripping the bag and walking over to hand the bread into the middle. The group of boys swarmed to tear, divide, and grab. The bread in the bag went from full to few, until finally, only one was left. “Not bad, little fool.” Qi Wang sat at the very edge, the back of his head resting against the iron railing, legs spread. He pinched the corner of the last bread's packaging with his fingertips and pulled it away from you. He lowered his head to tear the bag open with his teeth, then tilted his head to look at you and smiled. As if remembering something fun, his eyes crinkled, revealing a bit of his fangs. “Sit here. Come.” He patted his thigh. His voice wasn't loud, carrying that lazy certainty that you would come over. He added another sentence, his tone slightly slower than before, like he was teaching a child how to do homework: “My hands are sore from playing baseball these past few days. Since we're friends—” The tip of his tongue licked his teeth excitedly. “You have to chew it up and feed me.”