Through a Window

The metallic smell of industry and modernization, of rot and smoke—a lazy haze that curled against my skin and diluted the pinks and purples of the sunset with a tinge of grey—saturated the city. I took a measured breath and the air seared my throat, burning and licking at my nerves. The energy from Shanghai was muted here; the cacophony of man and machine dulled. Deep within this labyrinth of muddy brick and cobblestones, an outdoor market began to sleepily close business.
The merchants were either too callous or too familiar and she was no different. (“Honey, it’s so cheap. Good price.”) She had sold the locket to us quickly like she was a thief stealing our wares. Her lips were a patchwork of mauve lipstick and raw, chapped skin. She habitually licked them as she shoved our change into our palms. Perhaps she needed to go home soon; from above, past the lanterns and lights, were apartments. As the stalls began to close, the walkways grew darker and lonelier. When we returned to that narrow alleyway, the jewelry had been all but swept from her table.
Panic and confusion distorted the lines of her face, her lips twisted and warped. My friend was so certain that this woman had tried to trick her. (“She didn’t give me the right change, can you believe that?”) Her voice rose in indignation, echoing down the deserted corners of the market.
The woman jerkily shook her head. (“No, I don’t know. Please.”) She rummaged through her bags and pushed more jewelry into our hands. (“Take with you. Leave. Please.”) My friend wrinkled her nose but nodded shortly and pulled me away.
I glanced back. The lanterns’ light highlighted the sheen of sweat on her brow. The powder that coated her face did little to hide her sickly pallor, and her hands shook as she packed away the rest of her merchandise.
I wondered how we looked to her: two students traveling abroad, from another land, another circumstance. I wondered if she had ever left that little stand in the too small alleyway, left this city of metal and smoke. Would she ever peek into my world as I did hers?
We were two students traveling abroad, looking to experience, to bring back a little of the worlds we visited—in the mud that settled in our shoes, in the air that ached between our lungs, in the stories we gathered through our journeys.
The brick road crunched beneath our feet as we left her (life, her story) behind. I had looked through a window and found that I had little to show for it but a handmade locket.