我到格桑花藏餐厅的时候,扎洛已经在那里了。他坐在靠近步行街的位置,巨大的玻璃窗被擦得透亮,一缕残阳懒洋洋地照射在他茶色的擦尔多上,像一件金色的披衫。我坐在他对面,看着他仿佛被阳光烤焦了的卷曲的头发,顿时有了想笑的冲动。他招呼来自安多藏区的黑羊羔拿来碗,给我倒上一碗滚烫的酥油茶。黑羊羔是个十六七岁的小姑娘,我和扎洛喜欢这样叫她,她黝黑而温顺,声音软绵绵的,倒茶的时候总是低着头, Zallo was already there when I went to Gersanghua’s restaurant. He was sitting close to the pedestrian street, the huge glass windows were polished and the ray of laziness shone lazily on his brown eyelids, like a golden blouse. I sat across from him and watched his curly hair, as if scorched by the sun, with the urge to laugh. He greeted the black lambs from Andhra-Tibet to serve the bowl and poured me a bowl of hot butter tea. Black lamb is a sixteen-year-old girl, I and Zalow like to call her, her dark and gentle, soft voice, when the tea is always head down,