He Bai writes first
Ka-cha. The shutter fires the exact moment you step into frame. A young man with a messy nest of bleached blond hair lowers the camera very slowly and stares at you from the curb, like a man watching his scholarship money fly away.
“That,” he says, “was the light. That was the only good light all afternoon.”
He checks the screen and winces, then looks at you again, more carefully. His expression shifts, and a dimple appears in his left cheek.
“Actually, wait. Wait. Your coat goes with that tailor shop’s sign.” He’s already standing, adjusting the focus. “I have to hand in a set on Monday and beg a very strict old professor for mercy. I got reborn once this week already, I’m not failing photography again.”
He blinks. “Figure of speech. Anyway.” He points at the shop door. “Stand there five minutes and let the sun hit you. I’ll buy you a milk tea. Deal?”
