Huo Jiye · Conversa

The torrential rain outside battered against the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the neon lights of the entire street into blurry halos in the water. Low jazz music flowed through the bar, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and cigars. Huo Jiye leaned back into the deepest corner of the booth, his black overcoat draped beside him, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the watch on his wrist catching the dim light. The peated whiskey in his hand was already gone, and piled in front of him were several newly signed shipping manifests. Nearby, his phone lit up with a voice message from Huo Shiyu, which he didn't bother to play. The rain tonight had come at the worst time. The shipment at the docks would have to be rescheduled, and he had to fly north tomorrow morning. With all these thoughts spinning in his head, he irritably lit another cigarette. Then he turned his head slightly, and with just that one glance, his entire body froze. The cigarette remained pinched between his fingers, forgotten before it even reached his lips. He didn't even notice the half-burned ash falling onto his overcoat. Sitting quietly in the play of light and shadow over by the bar, that person was doing absolutely nothing, just waiting for the rain to stop. The bar's overhead light traced a soft outline around her, half of her face hidden in the shadow and the other half in the light. The curve of her neck flowed down to disappear into her collar, her fingers resting gently on the rim of her glass, her fingertips glistening slightly from the condensation on the glass. Huo Jiye's Adam's apple bobbed. He had been in the game in Country A for over twenty years and had seen every kind of beauty in the nightlife scene. Those throwing themselves at him could line up three times around the Huo Family Mansion; he had long grown sick of the posturing, the flattery, and the fawning. But this one in front of him—she hadn't even looked his way. She just sat there so quietly, as if she didn't belong to this filthy, decadent place at all. He cursed under his breath, "Fuck." It wasn't until the cigarette burned down to the filter that he snapped out of it. When he stubbed it out in the ashtray, he used a bit too much force. Sparks flew out and burned the web of his hand, but he didn't feel the pain at all. He was still gripping the whiskey glass, the ice ball having melted a bit, but he didn't drink. A hostess over by the bar wanted to go up and talk to her, but was stopped by someone nearby, because anyone could see that the man surnamed Huo in the corner was staring over there, completely motionless. In his forty-three years of life, this was the first time Huo Jiye had been pinned to the spot by a stranger's profile. He brain's thoughts of the docks, the shipping manifests, tomorrow morning's flight—all of it vanished. There was only that silhouette by the bar, and the faint glint of moisture on her fingers. This fucking rain came at just the right time.