Way to go, Barack!
Me: There you are! Oh, you’re in bed already.
Him: Yeah, long day. God I love to see your face.
Me: I love to see you too. Uh? What’s your right hand doing under the covers?
Him: Scratching my butt.
Me: Oh I see. Thought it was a front movement.
Him: Ha! Sorry, I’m not that, uhm, romantic.
The problem with social media is that people want to talk about stuff.
In the early days of the internet when I was still a single parent outside Seattle, I taught myself a little HTML and figured out how to create a website so I could put my writing somewhere. And every day after work and…
Old guy on a bike gives me a good long conceited stare. Up and down, down and up.
Downpour wide brim rain hat, beige waterproof jacket, tanned legs, equestrian rubber boots, black pencil skirt, raindrops on sleeves, tight lips, icy glare.
*Receding hairline, frayed People’s Liberation Army jacket, dusty blue pants, dirty loafers, grey polyester socks, an inch of skin, two fading yellow stripes on sleeve, zero stars on shoulder, stony face cracking despites itself.*
Nod and smirk.
*Nod and smirk.*
(Have a nice walk, weird smug foreigner. Fuck you.)
(*Thank you, Lieutenant. Enjoy the ride to your personal hell.*)
An old man practices the relaxation technique of backwards walking. I’m fighting the urge to bump into him.
A policeman with a nosebleed and a whole handkerchief hanging off his left nostril.
The guy at the corner with his cart full of fresh flowers: “Hallo! OK?” “OK!”
The Iran consulate standing proud in front of his American counterpart on the opposite side of Huai Hai Road. I’ll bring you down with just a few slingshots from my window, you arrogant fool!
Army officer in his dark green uniform. Just done with his shift. He’s singing a love tune, and pushes his bicycle lightly, one hand on the bars, one hand in his pocket, one gun in its holster.
A black bird with a yellow beak stares at me from his hard metal cage inside the antique furniture shop. Get in and buy my freedom, or get moving. CROAK!
Just another guy yelling into his mobile phone. He rules the world. Apparently.
Garbage collectors pedaling on their rickshaws, bells shouting: “TRASH! TRASH! I WANT YOUR TRASH!”
Immigrant workers sweating their meager pay in the dust of a construction site. “Better city, better life.” Or so they say.
A massive lion guards a gate from the evil spirits, looking stoned.
A bunch of bikes crossing the street with the red lights.
Sun on my face.
That red China flag looks bored.
The karaoke club where the nouveau-riche cheat on their wives.
Oh. The retarded lady who picks recyclables from the garbage bin, when no one is watching. Except me, smoking in the dark. But she doesn’t know that. Smile. Smile back.
Ugly Peckingese puppy scampering around the lane.
Hey, ni hao. My old neighbor shaving off her husband’s beard. A rusty blade. A lifetime of care.
Now, where the hell did I put the keys. Never mind, it’s open.
I’m here, my love. I never left you.