Faint smell of curry in the hot humid air.
frantic nonstop rush of people.
a tat-tat-tat of a man
who's wearing his tennis shoes like slippers
wrinkling the heel.
tut-tut-tut of luggage wheels
scraping against the uneven brick pavement.
another chuk chuk chuk
of the thick worn sole of a plump man
dragging his feet.
Queuing for a bowl of ramen
on a Saturday early evening.
Once passersby would whisper "Chao—who?
You know, the girl offered by the billionaire."
I'd queue and pretend I never knew
their pointed stares, their whispered ridicule.
Freedom is privacy,
standing on the street
queuing for noodles
without harassment.
Soon my turn to slurp and taste,
finally free from whispered haste.