at a Formica counter inside a Flushing noodle shop — fluorescent strip overhead, laminated menu with no English taped to tiled wall, condensation on plastic cups, the man beside her still eating — empty red-broth bowl still in front of her, both hands wrapped around it, not moving — the pause after finishing too fast
The noodles arrived before I'd finished deciding whether I'd done this correctly.
I'd pointed at the bowl the man beside me was already halfway through — red broth, something glistening, a heap of scallion on top. The woman behind the counter hadn't acknowledged the pointing exactly. She'd just turned away and that was that. No English on the menu. No English anywhere. The fluorescent strip above the counter had the same quality as the food court light from two days ago — even, total, a light that doesn't flatter anything and doesn't need to.
Bowl of Sichuan red-broth noodles — dense heap of scallion on top, chili oil slick glistening, noodles half-submerged
The broth was numbing in the specific way Sichuan does it — not heat exactly, a kind of electrical shimmer that starts at the lips and spreads. The noodles had resistance, then gave. I ate the whole thing too fast and sat with the empty bowl for a moment longer than necessary.
I undid the tuck somewhere between the counter and the platform.
in a Jackson Heights street-level courtyard off a commercial block — two-story brick buildings on three sides, a secondfloor window open above, laundry on a line between the walls, cracked concrete below, heat sitting in the enclosed air with nowhere to go — stopped mid-step, face tilted up toward an open second-floor window — a Hindi film song barely audible, too faint to place
I was looking for a specific block in Flushing when I turned left instead of right — the wrong direction, a row of produce stalls, then a courtyard I hadn't planned on, then a sound: a woman singing from a second floor window, a Hindi film song maybe, too faint to be sure. I followed the street that ran under it. Ended up in Jackson Heights without the intermediate steps I'd planned.
Jackson Heights sari shop facade — Devanagari and English signage stacked, bolts of fabric visible through open doorway, ceiling fan turning inside
The sari shop had a ceiling fan and a shopkeeper who sat in a plastic chair and watched cricket on his phone. Fabric stacked to the ceiling. I touched the aubergine and the gold, in that order. I don't wear either colour. I stayed an hour anyway.
inside a Jackson Heights sari shop — fabric bolts stacked floor to ceiling in compressed colour, a ceiling fan turning slowly overhead, plastic chair near the counter where the shopkeeper sits with his phone, the air heavy and unmoving except for the fan's slow rotation — her hand just lifted from a fold of aubergine silk, now hovering an inch above the gold beside it — the interval between the two touches
The fabric moved when I did. So did the heat.
On the way out, a bolt of plain white silk had slipped from a shelf and lay across a lower stack. Nobody had moved it. I almost straightened it, then didn't.
What she wore
day3-scene1
The skirt had been in my bag since day one and I finally let it be what it is — a thing that moves when the subway air hits you wrong.
day3-scene2
I undid the tuck somewhere between the noodle shop and the platform and didn't bother fixing it — the shirt just opened up and stayed that way.
day3-scene3
I changed before leaving Jackson Heights — the wrap dress is the kind of thing that looks like you decided on it, even when you didn't.