By the time Weng got used to living without his father,
things in Beijing had really changed. Each day brought at
least one group of tourists into the district.
And Beijing roads had become slow rivers of metal,
a toxic cloud you could see from space.
Weng’s community was now penned in on all sides
by shopping centers that sold driving shoes from Italy
and jewels too heavy to wear.
Sometimes Weng stared into the windows of Chanel
still visible from the corner where he sold vegetables.
The dummies behind the glass were dressed for a beach party,
or skiing, or some other activity impossible in Beijing.
His father had once told him:
beauty cannot be bought, only perceived.
Peering at the Chanel mannequins became a ritual that
Weng (like many unmarried men who passed that corner)
quietly relished.