The gate was locked. A padlock, chain, a paper notice in Chinese I read halfway and then didn't need to finish. I stood there for a moment. Then I turned around.
The dense run of overlapping Chinese-language shop signs above the sidewalk awnings on Main Street, Flushing, read from below
I walked until the street opened into something familiar-adjacent — the covered stretch near the bus stops where the awnings run together and everything is for sale in multiples. Found the mall entrance by following two women carrying identical bags of produce. Down the escalator, past the roast meat stalls and sesame pastries, into the particular brightness of the food court basement. Fluorescent overhead. No windows. The light falls evenly on everything and shows it as it is.
at a narrow noodle counter in the basement food court — a stainless steel ledge at chest height, tiled wall behind streaked with old condensation, a handwritten Chinese menu taped above at an angle, fluorescent strip backlighting the counter's edge — She has just set her bowl down and is lifting the spoon, eyes on the surface of the broth — the chili oil making a slow red thread through vinegar-clouded liquid, not yet tasted
The noodle stall had a queue of eight. No English signage facing outward. A woman behind the counter moving with the economy of someone who has made this same thing more times than she's counting — Shandong noodles, hand-pulled, the dough going through her hands like it had somewhere to be. I waited. The man ahead of me ordered without looking at the board. I did the same.
The bowl came with vinegar and chili oil already placed, a spoon beside it. She didn't look at me when she handed it over. Not unfriendly. Just finished.
Bowl of hand-pulled Shandong noodles with chili oil pooling at the surface and a small dish of dark vinegar beside it
I ate at a plastic table near the back. The noodles had drag to them — real texture, not boiled past itself. The vinegar cut through and the chili came after. The table had a small burn mark near the edge, oval, dark at the center. I ate around it without moving my bowl.
under a run of low commercial awnings along a Flushing side street — plastic signage in Chinese and Korean stacked above a produce stall, cardboard flats of fruit at the curb, wet asphalt reflecting the awning colors in a soft smear, the street opening slightly at the far end — She has stopped just past the produce stall, half-turned back toward it — a steamed bun held in one hand, the other hand free, mid-bite completed, watching something across the street she has not decided whether to cross toward
The drizzle had softened when I came back up. Asphalt and something frying and the faint turned edge of wet cardboard. I found a bakery with steamed buns in the window. No particular reason. Bought one, ate it standing. The filling was slightly too sweet and I ate it anyway.
on the pavement outside the mall entrance on a Flushing commercial block — a padlocked gate with chain and paper notice fixed to it in the near background, the street behind it showing a closed shopfront, a few pedestrians crossing at distance under grey sky — She has already turned away from the gate and taken two steps — not walking yet, weight arrested mid-turn, reading the street ahead as if recalibrating
What she wore
day3-scene1
I wore the camel knit because it was the least amount of decision I could make at that hour, and Queens in the morning doesn't ask you to explain yourself.
day3-scene2
I'd switched into the skirt by the time I found the stall — I can't explain it, only that the jeans felt like the wrong answer once I was underground.
day3-scene3
By evening I was in the shirt dress and the light outside was the same colour as the fabric and I thought that was enough of a reason to stay a little longer.