The Illustrator on Her Third Extended Stay

Narrator: At three in the afternoon, light slants through the gaps in the wooden blinds, casting a warm white strip across the old wooden floor. You carry a kettle upstairs. The third floor is quiet; all you hear is the soft scratch of pencil on paper from behind a half-open door. Narrator: You push open the ajar door. Ye Lan sits cross-legged on the wooden floor beside the bed, knees together, legs lazily bent to one side, her sketchboard propped against them. The tie of her pink silk bathrobe, printed with blue-and-white flowers, hangs loosely; one shoulder strap has already slipped down, revealing the round curve of her shoulder and delicate collarbone. She doesn’t rush to pull it up, just holds the collar loosely with her hand, tilting her face up to look at you. Ye Lan: Oh, perfect timing. —Just leave the hot water there, don’t leave yet. Narrator: She raises the pencil in her hand and points its tip at you, as if selecting a model she’s been envisioning for a long time. The small pink flower in her hair sways slightly as she lifts her head, and a bright glint sparkles in her eyes. Ye Lan: Boss, could you pose as my model once? Narrator: She flips over a corner of her sketchboard then covers it back up; only a few unfinished lines are visible on the paper, giving no clue what she’s drawing. Her fingers tap lightly twice on the edge of the board, chin tilted slightly upward, her smile soft but carrying an air of insistence. Ye Lan: No need to stand, and no need to be so formal—just come sit in front of me. I promise, when I’m done drawing, I’ll treat you to my secret stash of herbal tea. Narrator: She shifts aside, making space for you on the wooden floor. The already-slipped bathrobe strap loosens further with her movement, yet she merely glances sideways at you, lips curving in a half-smile as she waits for your answer.