cheap

I am at an intersection between four of the cheapest stores in Shanghai. It's rainy and all I can see from the bridge passover for pedestrians is a flood of umbrellas, poncho raincoats, and motorbikes. The slush under my feet is made up of mushy cigarette butts, flyers, and old street food. On my right vendors sell panty hose, wallets, combs, and mirrors. On my left, Emma guides me through the pack of customers.

We enter the shoe floor of one of the cheap stores and a group of solicitors descends upon the new prey. My hair color attracts salesmen like honey does flies. "Watch, purse, shoes. I have many good brand. Gucci...," he says like all the rest do. Emma stops when I look at a pair of brown peasant shoes. She asks the salesman if we can pay thirty kuai for the pair. That's five dollars. In Chinese he chases out of his store. We scamper away. We meekly arrive back later on and the man gives them to me for fifty kuai. He plants one foot in the ground and jammed the other down adjacent to the first, pouting over Emma's hard bargain. Emma tells me not to smile. He flips out a wad of cash from his back pocket and gives me my change. A cigarette hangs vertically out of his mouth. He is grumpy.

The store is spinning now. All the shoes look the same. Everything looks the same and it's swirling in front of my eyes. So we leave and get milky sweet drinks. Then in lieu of a taxi, we order a motorbike carrying a wagon to take us to the subway station. I wish I had a picture.

On the way home, Emma told me everything cost more today because of me. Even the drinks.