$5.90 pork wontons, a jar of XO sauce and a pouch of roasted sunflower seeds.
I gently laid them on the counter.
She barked at me in English,
not a second of hesitation,
like the arms that pushed me into this vat of cold, white
paint,
leftover from The Block houses.
The Chinese girl behind the counter writhed
at the sight of my tattered Air Force 1s
as if they were screaming.
The security TV was screaming
on behalf of each aisle,
flinching as I scrambled past.
A Pokémon in a Bratz world.
Or a Bratz in a Pokémon world?
A corruption of culture, identity, and everything her mum had ever told her that girls like us should look like.
Maybe I’m dramatic.
I feel like how the sun must feel in skyscraper smog.
Maybe that’s dramatic.
The sun is not suffocating.
It’s shining somewhere?
Maybe I’m an alien,
the Asian girl at the Asian grocer
who looks like she should’ve gone to Coles.
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 4 ‘Alien’
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