May 2025
‍
"rainbreak"

‍Descending from the bridge, I smell the dance within each kitchen before I even see the street: Garlic hitting oil, tea-soaked ducks, pots of red broth filled precipitously to the brim.

On my bike, I feel like a mirage. 

I haven’t sweat in weeks. Winter is a looming memory. I am thawing out, my body softening, ripening—turning tender under a wind so warm that, if you could catch it, you might kiss it. On it, I smell blistered pepper. In my mind, a fork moves through the air, then vanishes into a mouth. I am hungry.

There is a chance it will rain today. It’s spring; there is always a chance. I glance at the clouds as I approach the restaurant. On the sidewalk, a violin groans in an old woman’s hands. Inside, they speak only with fingertips.

There is no music. Only footsteps and teacups touching lips. Plates nesting into plates. Silent satisfaction. It is deafening. My dish arrives with a shimmer; a metal spoon sliding along the bowl’s rim. My mouth falls upon it before even my eyes.

Later in the day, the sky opens up. It leadens the air. The world no longer smells of life; it smells of still concrete. I pedal, wheels on the black slab, stubbornly ascending the hump of the bridge as the rain soaks my clothes.