After several confusingly hazy days, the sun has finally escaped from its prison of smog. Dusk is serene, even in the hinterlands of Shanghai: the last bits of rose glinting off the tops of skyscrapers; toddlers scampering through the green (green everywhere); the smells of dinner and charcoal wafting in through my half-cracked window; and the wavering, pure notes of a reed flute, soaring into humid air as the city slowly lights its lamps.
Shanghai beckons, and I know I should be out there living it up - wandering the winding streets on the other side of the river, or inhaling the smoke and sweat and (free) booze, or Being Young. But I’ll pass, on the pretenses of working, working overtime on my project like the overeager intern I never was. Or of letting my jet-lagged boss/roommate back into the apartment, so he can muster a few hours of rests before he plasters on a smile and genial laughter and a firm handshake. And hell, messing around on Excel until 1am doesn’t sound all that pathetic when you consider the alternative (reality?): curling up on my poor excuse of a futon, armed with a bar Ikea chocolate, a full bottle of Tsing-Tao, a half-used box of tissues, a bag for the used tissues, and a harddrive full of Parks and Recreation. All this sad scenario is missing is a cat. And maybe some knitting.
