MING’S is a small Chinatown grocery store with a diner in the corner. I sat near a long, black electric sign. The sign constantly flashed the winning lotto numbers in a digital blur. Though the sky was still dull with fat clouds, the view from the window of Ming’s was red. Red, the dragons licking at a turquoise sun on a fading old building across the street, their red tongues turning to red flames. Red of neon letters flashing Kwon Tung, red of the garbage cans, and even the telephone booth a red temple. Red like some slutty nail polish gracing the fingers of a girl whose hands make you think of blood and stop signs.

I was just basically hanging out, hiding out at Ming’s. If I had some friends, maybe I would have celebrated my big brave act. Skipping school. But I’d lost my friends, and I couldn’t really convince myself that I was brave. I’d handled the garden hose incident with such little finesse. So I was just hiding out at the corner counter, me and two out-of-work logger guys. You can always tell a logger. They smoke Export A’s and wear woolen jackets in the spring. These loggers beside me at Ming’s were out of work and complaining about it. They were talking about driving to Cowichan to clearcut; they were trying to remember the name of Dennis’s wife. Dennis’s wife knew the foreman, but what the fuck was her name. They were burly guys, and sitting next to them I felt sort of safe and silly at the same time. There were no tourists at Ming’s, no teenage kids. I could hide there forever. This town’s small enough so you always see someone you recognize. But not at Ming’s. The loggers beside me began to talk about dog food.

I thought I should start thinking about how I should get it together. Get it together soon. Maybe move to New York, become a model, begin an exciting life. It seemed ridiculous, but girls in magazines were always doing it. And I’d even had this one guy saunter over to me like I’d handed him an invitation. So sure of himself, he came right up to me. He looked like an idiot lech but he said he was a scout. How old are you? Is that the real color of your hair? Has anyone told you you could be a model? I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but he probably thought he was being polite. I still had his slimy card around somewhere; I thought maybe I should give him a call.