a walk through texts

"An hour on the 7 Train. 98 in the shade, only there wasn't any. And now here they were. The uncle, the aunt, the cousins and Lynne, walking around and around Chinatown looking for a restaurant that didn't want to be found. It's Chinatown, the uncle said. The cousins laughed. It stinks, Lynne said. She doesn't get it, the cousins sniggered. I get it, Lynne said. Maybe she did and maybe she didn't. She practiced limping for later; a blister already blooming on her left heel.
     They filed past purses of every description, hanging under storefront awnings like bats from the roof of a cave. Lynne clutched her new over-the-shoulder purse, its plastic parts gone soft in the heat. They marched on: the uncle, the aunt, the cousins and Lynne, always in that order. Past stacks of scarves, belts and umbrellas; past armies of watches, faces turned to the sun; past heaps of leafy greens, spiky fruits and regular old oranges. Past scaly banks of dead fish piled atop long sloped ice-packed tables. Stench spilled out into the street."

J. R. Carpenter, CityFish, http://luckysoap.com/cityfish, 2010