this morning i walked into the slum-streets of

Shenzhen in my black combat boots and into a

shop with a faded green sign that supposedly sold

the world’s best beef lamian at just ten yuan a bowl.

i thought the pretty girl who brought me my food looked my age

or a little younger but then decided otherwise because school

hasn’t let out yet for kids her—my—age yet and there

could be no reason why she,

a girl like me, wouldn’t be at school.

i slurped my noodles (definitely not the world’s best beef noodles)

as the plump store manager told the girl to clear away dirty

plates on the table next to mine.

XiaoMei, scrub that table with a cloth, not tissues

XiaoMei, come take this customer’s order

XiaoMei, hurry up, what do you think you’re doing, sitting down?

When i finished my noodles XiaoMei took my bowl with

cracked brown hands and told me she liked my shoes.

i said thank you and looked at her shoes—a pair of off-brand

converse i see the seventh-grade girls wearing at my school.

Oh, i said, Oh. I like your shoes too.

The world’s best beef lamian sits uncomfortably in my

stomach as dirty knock-off converse shoes shuffle around

chipped floor tiles collecting ten yuan bills and wooden chopsticks.