When Lao Wang pushed open the door, he wasn't greeted by the aroma of dinner, nor the babbling calls of his son, but by an almost vacuum-like silence. The apartment, this pigeon coop he called "home," seemed unusually empty in the evening twilight, as if space itself had been stripped of something substantial.
In Beijing city, the most feared thing is a strong wind. Not the moist breezes from the south, but the kind unique to the north: dry, harsh, carrying sand and dust, howling like wolves. Especially if you live in a tall building, the wind slams against the windows relentlessly, rattling them, making even the glass tremble.
At seventeen minutes past two in the morning, I was still awake. The rain outside wasn't heavy, but persistent enough, like a rambling old woman, endlessly repeating some long-forgotten complaint. On the radio, Billie Holiday was singing a song about loss, her voice like frosted glass, rough, yet radiating a peculiar light. I was on the sofa, holding a glass of whiskey on the rocks that had long gone cold. The ice had completely melted, leaving only a thin, amber liquid that tasted like a metaphor for some kind of failed life.
Li Wei felt that ever since he and Xiao Fang broke up, his desktop WeChat had turned into a malevolent ghost court, and he was the sole defendant, charged with "attempting to forget."
Lixiang, much like the nearly withered jasmine on her windowsill, was an inconspicuous speck of green in this concrete jungle. She worked as a clerk in a medium-sized trading company, her days filled with typing, photocopying, and making tea that was never quite hot enough for the boss. Life felt like a rusty conveyor belt, carrying her from sunrise to sunset. Her only hope, her only thing to look forward to, was Liang Yu.
Three seventeen AM. Outside the window, the city was like a weary beast refusing to sleep, breathing low. Neon light filtered through the thin curtains, casting indistinct geometric patterns on the floor. I sat at my desk, the pages of the book spread before me unmoving, yet my ears were stuffed with noise—the argument of the couple upstairs, the canned laughter from the TV in the next room, the rumble of trucks passing on the distant street, even the subtle, persistent hum of the refrigerator compressor kicking in. All of it mingled together, like countless sticky little insects, burrowing into my cerebral cortex, crawling ceaselessly.
That sidewalk, it's kind of interesting. Right on that old street near my place, next to an old wall covered in greasy ivy. At first, nobody paid it any mind. People just hugged the wall or walked on the curb, tiptoeing around bikes. Later, some busybody measured it and announced, "Hey, this thing's only ten centimeters wide." Ten centimeters, comrades, what does that even mean? It means my size 42 worn-out leather shoes, the ones I've worn for years until the soles are almost gone, couldn't even fit sideways. Placed vertically, you'd have to twist your ankle at a bizarre angle.
In Tokyo during the rainy season, the air is like a wet towel that can't be wrung out, stickily wrapping everyone. I sit alone in a corner of the jazz bar "Dig," sipping whiskey on the rocks. Under the dim light, Charlie Parker's saxophone is mournful, as if it's trying to suck all the air out of your lungs.
Six o'clock sharp. The sky outside the window was like a piece of repeatedly washed, faded blue cloth. I woke up on time, without an alarm. Some gear inside me always meshed precisely at this hour. First, the cat. He's called Mustard, a calico whose fur looks like it's been stained by smoke. He was Zhe's. He jumped onto the bed, nuzzled my cheek with his nose, his throat rumbling like a tractor engine starting up. He never rushes me, just silently reminds me that the new day has begun unloading, whether I'm ready to sign for it or not.
I went to the kitchen to brew coffee. The beans were bought just yesterday, Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, with notes of citrus and flowers, like some distant, vague promise. Zhe liked Blue Mountain; he said its flavor had a sense of order. I don't get it. For me, coffee is just a weapon against the thick drowsiness of morning.
Li Ming felt like his legs were practically part of his electric scooter. Raindrops, like cheap beads from a clearance sale, hammered his helmet, trickled down his neck, and seeped towards his hot, aching back. This city, this steel jungle, always had a way of throwing cold water on you—literally and figuratively—right when you were most exhausted.