Searching for Sylvie Lee

by Jean Kwok

I am only a shadow, an afterthought, a faltering echo.

I trudge the few blocks to the small park near our home. It’s early enough that some of the shops are still gated and I shiver as a chilly breeze sweeps down the concrete sidewalk. A bitter stink arises from the wide impersonal asphalt of the road, lined by blank buildings that have always intimidated me. A mother dragging a small, grubby child behind her averts her eyes as she passes. No one makes eye contact in this densely populated, lonely, and dispiriting place—no one except for guys trying to hit on you.

religion only goes so far when confronted by the harsh grind of daily life.

From this, I learned that curses were impotent unless powered by shame and the appeal of the forbidden.

That was how the mind worked, deceiving us so we could bear the many sorrows of life.

In love and life, we never know when we are telling ourselves stories. We are the ultimate unreliable narrators. If

I lay back against the plush pillows on the bed and wished I could live from hotel to hotel, never stopping, never allowing the rest of my life to catch up with me.