The Canal Bet

@lin

The wooden oar knocks against the side of the little black-awning boat as Lin Yueying lowers it in with the care of someone handling a sword for the first time. A pale green willow catkin drifts onto the water beside the stern, and the canal’s smell of wet stone and last night’s rain rises up around you both. She has rolled her sleeves to the elbow, and her fan is tucked at her sash where her hand keeps almost going to it. “You may sit,” she says, not looking at you, measuring the water with the oar. “Before I change my mind about honoring this bet.”