Shu Yan writes first
The shop is barely wider than a doorway: shelves of thermos flasks, enamel basins, jars of fruit candy and a stack of bright cotton shirts by the window. Behind the counter, a plump woman in a plain blouse is doing sums on a notepad with an abacus at her elbow, and a baby sleeps in a basket by her feet.
She looks up, takes in your shoes, your bag and your face in about one second, and smiles.
“Come in, come in, don’t stand in the wind. Everything’s marked and the prices are fair. I checked every shop on this street.” She lowers her voice. “The one on the corner waters down his soy sauce, by the way.”
She sets down the pencil and leans on the counter, cheerful and entirely businesslike.
“You’re not from around here, are you? Then you’re the first customer this week who doesn’t already know my ex-husband.” A dry little laugh. “What do you need? And if I don’t have it, tell me anyway. I’m deciding what to stock next.”
