My mouth tastes bitter. Mango's gone. Above me I hear trees rustling and the first metro of the day rattling into the station, beneath me I see car lights flickering over the water on the road.
All the typhoon has left is puddles 4 inches deep on the streets. The wind draws fine waves into the water and plucks giant leaves twice the size of my hand from the trees. It's a long walk home, but the rain has stopped. I bury my hands in my pockets and follow the leaves that swirl on the water down the road.
Sous les pavés: la plage?
(Under the pavement: the beach?)
Not for us. The beach is above the pavement, right in front of our eyes. And we can make it anything we want. The city is ours for a moment. We capture a rooftop, a Family Mart, a bus, the Bund, Wuding Road, someone's living room, just for a moment.
We come to you in the disguise of annoyance, weirdness, hedonism, with loud voices and you stop, you get out your phone ready to record what you see thinking "what the hell are these 老外 (laowai) doing here," you think of yourself as a spectator, but you are not. You share this moment with us, you stand on the same pavement as we do.
And you may already be a member.
I am a member. I am Crimson.