Jiaomen West Station

I know you think you saw Yinong at Jiaomen West Station last night, two plastic bags of warm curry rice on his lap, but what if I told you the man you think you love is simply the bluish afterimage of some 1996 seditionary bagging your cigarettes & curry packets outside Suzhoujie, someone whose fingers worked fast & stuffed crumpled yuan in squeaky tills without remark on the unfinished brushstrokes of your hands, someone who averted your gaze with practiced indifference but whose face flashed last before you walked out into that insomniac’s milky way they call Beijing?