Two years after breaking up with him, I returned home from Guangzhou.
It was a summer break. Mom ran a little convenience store that guests
frequented. That day, I was watching TV at the back when two men
lifted the door curtain, already stirred by the fan. It was hot. One of them
spoke up, asking about a brimmed hat. His voice, husky,
was almost like his. I let go of the telephone wire I had been fiddling with,
walked out, rested at the counter, and watched the man
bargain, then chat with my mom. Amazing he even shared his accent—
A Hakka, he spoke with a mouthful of smoldering fire. Of course, they looked
nothing alike. I listened to him talking, waiting for the cigarette
hanging from his ear to drop. When they left for the beach,
I held onto the door frame until they disappeared: the scorching sun stretched them
like a streak of colorful fish fat clinging to the seaside rocks.

当昼有人客

跟他分手大约两年后的暑假，我从广州回到家。
我母亲有个小百货，每天来买东西的，多是游客。
那天在里间看电视。天很热，有两个男人撩开
风扇吹起的门帘进来，其中一个开口，询问檐帽的
价格。那把声音，沙沙的，跟他几乎一模一样。
我松开在指间翻卷着的电话线，迅速走出来，
落在柜台一边，看着那个男人与母亲砍价、聊天。
有意思，他甚至，带有他那样的口音。客家人
说话，嘴巴里像有荡开的地火。当然，他们长得
丝毫不像。我全程听他说话，看他耳梁上的香烟
摇摇欲坠。后来他们走向了海滩，我只是攀住门
看着他们远去的背影:烈日将他们化成了一长条
粘在礁石上的五彩斑斓的鱼油。