They sat on the grass. Young Li and Madam Chu. He will read her his poetry. She will talk to him about it. He'd written it in a small notebook. Bound with linen. With ties that fell around his wrist. Pale skin.
His fingers flipped the pages. The last poem. He wrote it last night. While anxious of this meeting. Madam Chu, his mentor. He always wore good shirt and trousers. He smelled pleasantly of cream and soap. She nodded and he started.
It was a poem about a journey. From Taipei to Taichung. Young Li waved his hands. There were mountains and...