RITM - 29

Saturday morning, the sun turned the entire Saint Tridu neighborhood into a furnace. In the bedroom of apartment 4948 in building 2, the curtains on the third floor were tightly drawn. The male occupant lay on the bed like a lifeless body. The doorbell rang loudly and forcefully almost ten times, but it failed to rouse him from this state. He dragged his weary body to answer the door, then slammed it shut with a “bang.” Rushing to the full-length mirror, he combed his messy hair with his hand, took a quick look around the disordered living room, pulled out BB cream from a makeup bag left behind by his female companion, applied it under his eyes, changed clothes, and finished adjusting them in less than twenty seconds. After opening the door again, he had transformed into the aristocratic man who could have stepped out of a French poem: “Good morning, conqueror of the scorching summer, my yellow rose lady.”

Xiao Lajiao handed him a package, her eyes full of surprise: “Lu Xiren?” She had mentioned strange experiences from her part-time job to Luo Wei, and naturally, Lu Xiren, the odd online shopper, had come up. Luo Wei had laughed uncontrollably upon hearing his name, saying he was the artistic director of Zhen Ji Wang City and had a reputation as “the number one stud of Gongzhou,” so it wasn’t surprising that he would do something like this.

Lu Xiren shook his head, pointing to the apartment next door: “Yellow rose lady, I live next door. Forgetting is a kind of freedom, and a free beauty forgets things more often. I can understand.”

Xiao Lajiao stood motionless, only her eyes flicking toward the door of the next apartment, and then she forced a dry laugh: “You two really have a good relationship.”

“Yes, we are friends who share both good times and bad. But I must say, I don’t agree with his way of life. After all, loyal love is my life’s belief.”

She locked eyes with his affectionate smile for a moment but realized he was just laughing deeper, and couldn’t help but continue, “Can you sign for me?”

He quickly scrawled his signature on the package slip: “Does Yellow Rose Lady handle all the deliveries?”

“Yes, if you need to send something, you can also contact me directly. This is my number.” She handed him her business card, adjusted her cap, and briskly walked toward the elevator door.

He examined the business card carefully. It had her name, company phone, and mobile number written on it. Then he looked up to see her slender back in her sporty uniform, his heart beating wildly—Su Yufei, that was her name. He hadn’t expected this wild, beast-like woman to have such a gentle name. When the elevator bell rang and the door opened, he couldn’t help but step forward: “Miss Su.” Seeing her hold the elevator door open with her hand and signaling for him to continue, he gathered his courage: “Miss Su, you must be very tired from running around day and night. I’m an artist, and I’d like to learn about your industry’s life. Next weekend, may I invite you to afternoon tea and hear you talk about your work?”

“This way of hitting on someone is so damn cool.” She let go of the door, stepped into the elevator, and waved at him, “Too bad, I don’t accept dual plugs.”

A few days later, the post-rain wind broke the heat, playing a free and fresh melody in the air. On the lawn of the Xie family, a woman in a bright red backless floor-length gown lay on the table, one hand lifting her long hair, and the milk-like skin of her bare back exposed to the intense gaze from behind. She had been maintaining this posture since morning, but the owner of the gaze still showed no sign of weariness, observing the difference between this painting and her real self, even while pressing a brush into a rag to soak up water, not forgetting to study the light and dark transitions and color gradients on her body. Her waist started to ache, and she helplessly glanced over: “Xinqi, aren’t you supposed to be attending Cici’s designer competition? I see you’re not in a hurry at all?”

“That was done ages ago, shut up, just shut up. You’ll get your share of the benefits, turn your head away. Seeing your face kills my creative passion.” Xie Xinqi had her big curls tied up on her head, stray hairs falling on her temples. Her apron was a mess of paint, like a shattered rainbow. In her left hand, she held a palette and two brushes, while her right hand wielded a light-colored brush for highlights. Every time her artistic fervor flared up and her mother saw her in this state, Mrs. Xie would sigh and lament that her daughter looked like she was scavenging, wondering why she hadn’t insisted on her studying music instead—after all, at least musicians have some grace. Twenty minutes later, she revealed a smug smile: “Done! I made you look much prettier than you actually are. Your back isn’t that slender, and your chest isn’t that big, hehe.”

The model collapsed like a crumbling building, twisting her body without any care for poise. Xie Xinqi took the oil painting off the easel and handed it over to a passing servant to dry, quickly replacing it with a blank linen canvas. She beckoned to the model with a finger: “Come here, now I want to do a close-up portrait. Sit closer.” Upon hearing this, the model froze, then ran ten meters away, clutching her dress. But Xie Xinqi wouldn’t let her escape so easily; she chased after her even faster, blocking her way under the grapevine corridor. The model screamed for mercy, but Xie Xinqi dragged her towards the grass without hesitation. A beauty in an evening gown versus an artist who looked like a beggar—they wrestled together, drawing curious glances from even the gardener passing by. After a brief standoff, a voice came from the corridor: “Xinqi, your friend has been working hard all day. Let her rest.”

Behind the column, Xie Xiuchen’s face appeared. He was holding a book, seemingly having stayed in the shade for quite some time. Xie Xinqi immediately released her grip, nearly causing the model to fall flat on her face. Ever since the awkward incident of their accidental kiss—and despite his apology afterward—she had always felt a bit uneasy around him. Their house was large enough that avoiding someone was easy, and during this period, she only met him when their parents were present. Now, seeing him so calm, she realized her nervousness might indeed be a bit silly. Hearing Master Xie speak on her behalf, the model nodded like a sewing machine: “Xinqi, I have other things to do. Can I come back another day?”

“No, unless you find me a replacement. I prefer tall models with beautiful faces. Go find someone who meets these criteria.”

“For a facial close-up, what use is a tall figure?”

“The figure must also be good for a close-up, otherwise, I can’t continue.”

The model was almost in tears. She knew Xie Xinqi’s standards well. Ordinary beauties didn’t meet her requirements, and if she hired professional models, she’d complain they posed too deliberately, lacking elegance, unworthy of her artistic sensibilities. She favored educated, elegant, and beautiful models. At this thought, her gaze shifted, landing on Xie Xiuchen sitting in the corridor. She questioned, puzzled: “Why don’t you paint your brother? Isn’t he conveniently free and reading a book?”

Xie Xinqi glanced quickly at Xie Xiuchen and decisively said: “No.”

“Why not? Your brother perfectly fits the criteria.”

“I don’t meet Xinqi’s standards.” Xie Xiuchen wore a gentle smile, shifting his gaze from the book to the model’s face. “She only paints the most beautiful people.”

“Of course, of course…” The model blushed and avoided his gaze. Though she received compliments daily, words from Xie Xiuchen carried different weight, impacting her heart differently. However, upon reflection, she suddenly froze, almost dropping her jaw: “What? You don’t meet her standards?”

Instead, Xie Xinqi angrily retorted: “Is it that you don’t meet my standards? It’s that every time I want to paint you, you won’t let me.”

Xie Xiuchen smiled: “If you must torment someone to feel happy, better it be me than a girl. Let her relax. But I suggest you paint another day. You’ve been standing all day, no less exhausted than she is.”

This speech left the model both grateful and infatuated, wishing she could pose for them for three more days and nights. Xie Xinqi waved her brush: “I can paint sitting down. Since you said it, let me paint as long as I want, no backing out!”

After negotiating with Xie Xiuchen, she finally let the model go, moving all her painting tools under the corridor. He asked if she wanted him to pose in any particular way. After observing him for a moment, she said: “I don’t know why, but I tend to be less efficient painting standing figures. So I only paint seated or reclining ones. Why don’t you stay as you are, don’t move.” Thus, he continued reading, head bowed. She picked up a pencil, exhaled softly, and began sketching on the canvas: after looking at the top of his head, she marked the highest point on the canvas. Then, after glancing at his stretched-out left leg and shoe tip, she set the lowest point… Just as she was about to mark other body parts, he spoke without raising his head: “Isn’t this supposed to be a facial close-up? Can you see clearly from this distance?”

Only then did she realize her mind had gone blank, forgetting what she intended to paint due to nervousness. She erased the sketch, moved the easel and chair closer to his side, setting the lowest point at his chest, searching for the position of his chin. Usually, her painting style mirrored her personality—bold and confident whether outlining lines or applying colors. For sketches, she used pencils no finer than 4B, her strokes quick and precise. Rarely did she meticulously blend colors; instead, she directly applied paint thickly onto the canvas, giving her paintings an impressionistic style reminiscent of Auguste Renoir. Perhaps because this was her first time painting her brother, fearing criticism if she painted him poorly, her speed slowed significantly, her strokes becoming more conservative, even switching to a 2B pencil, as if she were a beginner again. After marking the positions of the eyes, nose tip, lips, and midline, she began outlining his general contours. She noticed that even with his head bowed, his chin showed no excess flesh, and tilting his head slightly created a beautiful arc from jaw to nose tip, making even this veteran painter feel nervous for the first time. She started painting at a young age and soon realized that beautiful people were generally harder to paint than unattractive ones due to the high demands on proportions—a challenge she had long wanted to take on by painting her brother. When she began painting his lips, just outlining one shape made her cheeks flush with heat. Unwilling to observe the subject too closely, she withdrew like a turtle, focusing on sketching the vines and leaves behind him. But after finishing the background, she still had to face his lips. Reluctant to look at the subject again, she placed the pencil on the easel and vigorously wiped the dried oil paint off her hands with a tissue, until her skin turned red and slightly painful. She had been moving her head to observe him, but suddenly stopped. Without lifting his head, he merely turned his eyes toward her, and this subtle movement instantly transformed the meaning of the painting—after locking eyes with him, she realized he was indeed very difficult to paint. Even a slight eye or lip movement presented intricate details challenging to capture.

However, the words he spoke were full of teasing: “Is it really that hot? Your face is so red.”

“How could it not be hot in this weather! You’re so annoying!” Her reaction was too intense, causing the pencil on the easel to be knocked to the ground by her arm, breaking its finely sharpened tip. The pencil rolled to his feet, and as she went to pick it up, her hand accidentally touched his outstretched one. She quickly pulled her hand back as if struck by electricity, then casually reached out again to retrieve it, making the deliberate action even more regrettable. She avoided looking at him, sat down on the chair, and lowered her head to sharpen the pencil. But the lead of this pencil was also damaged; no matter how gently she tried to sharpen it, the core kept breaking off in segments, falling to the ground like fragments of a shattered heart. Finally, in frustration and embarrassment, she threw the pencil on the ground and used the excuse of getting a new one to slip back into her room.

He watched her retreating figure expressionlessly until she disappeared behind the door. He turned his book upside down and placed it aside, then bent down to rummage through her pencil case, finding many 2B pencils inside—since childhood, he had always helped her sharpen pencils, knowing that her 2B pencils were always brand new. The wind carried the vibrant scents of plants leisurely along, swaying the tall camphor tree crowns into an emerald green sea, startling the gray-backed pigeons in the woods to take flight, and ruffling the hair on his forehead. He picked up the broken pieces of the pencil from the ground and silently examined them.

If she had seen his expression at that moment, she would have surely thought that painting him had become even more difficult.