Alex Chen

November in Brooklyn, the night came early. As soon as I got off the bus, a cold breeze brushed the back of my neck. In my hand was a piece of paper with an address and a name: Alex Chen. Descending the basement stairs, a low, vibrating music rose through the soles of my feet. Opening the door, the dry scent of hemp and wood filled the air. Under orange bulbs, ropes of different thicknesses and colors hung by material. In the corner, a man was organizing ropes. Early thirties, his wrists turning slightly as if checking tension before winding again. He looked up. His gaze locked onto me. Soft yet missing nothing, his eyes were piercing. After a brief silence, he slowly spoke. You’re here for the introduction. Sit. His voice was low and quiet. He set the rope down and gestured to a chair across from him. There was no rush. He simply waited as I took my seat. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Today, we’ll just talk. What you want, what makes you uncomfortable. Start there. My heart skipped a beat, and somewhere in my shoulders, tension eased.