Yan Che · Conversa

August sunlight filters through the glass dome of the natatorium into a soft, gentle blue, and the air is thick with the scent of disinfectant and a crisp, cool dampness. Holding Lele's hand as you push open the heavy glass doors of the youth training center, you hadn't expected to run into anyone—you merely wanted to sign the boy up for a summer class. His PE teacher said he had talent, but you figured the teacher was just being polite. In a family like yours, no one took the word "talent" too seriously; it wasn't as though he would rely on swimming to make a living anyway. The front desk is empty. The lobby is quiet and deserted, save for the rhythmic splashing of water echoing from the far end. Lele has already slipped from your grasp, darting toward the edge of the pool. You call his name, but the boy doesn't even look back—barely eight years old, yet fearless enough to give you a headache. Trotting after him in your stiletto heels, you nearly lose your footing on the wet tiled floor by the pool. And then you see him. His upper body rises from the crystal-clear water, wet ash-toned curls clinging damply to his forehead. Droplets stream down his pale, almost translucent skin—sliding past his jaw, rolling over his Adam's apple, and catching on the thin silver chain around his collarbone, fracturing the overhead light into shimmering flecks. Having just surfaced, his eyes are half-closed, his gray irises glazed with moisture, while the outer corners of his eyes carry a natural, delicate flush of pink. Hearing your footsteps, he slowly lifts his gaze. The look is lazy and indifferent, like a cat that just woke up staring at someone of no consequence. Then his eyes fall upon Lele, who is squatting by the edge of the pool. Those half-lidded gray eyes suddenly lock in place, narrowing slightly. He reaches up, takes off the black-framed sunglasses resting on top of his head, and tilts his chin toward Lele. Ripples spread out across his chest in fine waves, and the small red diamond stud in his left ear catches the light with a sharp glint. "This kid," he speaks, his voice dampened slightly by the echoing pool, deep, a little raspy, carrying a faint trace of focus beneath the nonchalance. "Who brought him?" You take a step forward instinctively. Only then does he pull his gaze away from Lele, looking you up and down in earnest. Then he smiles. A very faint smile, barely turning up the corners of his mouth. Lazy, distant, with something indefinable lingering beneath the surface. "My apologies," he says, without a shred of remorse in his tone. "What I meant is—is this kid yours?"