It was only on the third day after Lin arrived in Taormina that he finally learned to distinguish the three types of blue in this town. At noon, the sea is white and gold, so dazzling that one can hardly open one's eyes; in the evening, it is iris purple, as if a whole bottle of ink has been spilled; and now, at 4:30 in the afternoon, just after the cruise ship has left the port, the sea water turns into a hesitant gray-blue, somewhere between forgetting and remembering.
She leaned against the low stone wall and held the last mouthful of lemon smoothie on the tip of her tongue. The tip of her nose wrinkled with soreness. The sugar water dripped down the wall of the cup and stuck to the index and middle fingers of her right hand. She was about to lower her head to dig through the tissues in her bag, but her peripheral vision first caught the person on the steps below.
He sat in front of the dark green wooden door at the corner, leaning against the faded door frame. An old beech wood easel was propped in front of him, and a sketchbook with rolled edges was spread out on his knees. He wore a light blue shirt that had been washed until it turned white. The cuffs were rolled up twice, revealing a clean forearm. He was not wearing a hat, and his dark hair was messed up by the sea breeze. Every once in a while, he would raise his hand to brush the hair away, and his movement looked carefree.
There is something that has not yet formed on the canvas - large clumps of ultramarine and ocher mixed together. The texture of waves can be vaguely discerned at the bottom, but the blue is too deep, as deep as the midnight seabed. There is only a hint of warm golden color in the middle, and the brush is repeatedly painted on that golden color, as if he has been competing with it.
Lin Wan didn't know how long she stood there. The smoothie turned into a pool of light yellow water at the bottom of the cup, flowed along her fingers to her wrist, and then dripped onto the hem of her white skirt, leaving a small translucent trace. She just watched the way his brows furrowed occasionally while he was painting, watched him tap his knee lightly with the end of the pen holder, watched him turn his head and squint his eyes to look at the angle of the canvas, completely forgetting that she was still holding a glass of melting ice in her hand.
Until he turned his head without warning.
That glance came straight at her, and across three steps and more than two meters of air, she had no time to dodge or pretend to be looking away, and he just caught her in the act. His gray-green eyes were like the sea darkened by clouds before a rainstorm. There was no surprise or doubt in them, only a strange calmness - as if he had known she was there for a long time, knew she would stand there and look at him, and he just waited until a preset time before turning his head.
"Your hand," he said. His voice was a little deeper than he looked, with a slightly rising arc at the end like a Sicilian accent, like the last wave of waves crashing onto the beach.
Lin Wan lowered her head and realized that her right hand was already wet, and sugar water was dripping down her fingertips. She hurriedly opened the buckle of her crossbody bag to get out the tissues, but the entire pack of tissues was brought out, bounced twice on the stone steps, rolled down, and stopped right next to his right foot.
He bent down and picked it up. Then he looked at her, and instead of handing it back, he took out one, unfolded it, and stretched out his free hand toward her.
Lin Wan looked at his open palm and stayed for two seconds. The hand was not particularly big, but the knuckles were distinct. There was a small piece of dried indigo paint on the sides of the index finger and middle finger, and there were faint calluses on the fingertips. She put her right hand up by mistake.
He held her fingertips - very lightly, as if he was afraid of crushing something. The tissue covered it and slowly wiped it along the seam of her fingers. From thumb to index finger, middle finger to ring finger, he wiped each one carefully. His movements were neither fast nor slow, with an almost solemn concentration. Lin Wan felt the thin calluses of his fingertips brush against the sides of her fingers, which were slightly astringent, and the touch spread all the way to the inside of her wrists.
"Okay." He let go of his hand, balled up the used tissue and stuffed it into his shirt pocket, as if it was something he should be responsible for handling.
Lin Wan withdrew her hand and realized that her cheeks were a little hot. The area where the hand was rubbed was still numb, as if a small electric current was trapped under the skin and refused to dissipate.
"Thank you." She said, her voice was much softer than she expected.
He placed the tissue box on the step between them and picked up the paintbrush again. But he didn't write immediately. Instead, he turned his head and looked at the sea, as if waiting for something.
"You are a tourist." After a while, he said, with no doubt in his tone.
"Is it obvious?" Lin Wan simply sat down next to him, separated by an easel. The stone steps had been exposed to the sun all afternoon, and a warm touch came through the thin cotton skirt.
He raised his hand and pointed at her wrist: "Sun protection sleeves, and you push them to the elbow position. Locals don't wear them like this." He then pointed to the brand new white canvas shoes on her feet. "And this color. If you walk on the steps of Taormina at four o'clock in the afternoon, you will be regarded as bread crumbs by pigeons. Believe it or not, pigeons will come to peck at your shoelaces in five minutes."
Intention: bg