Reclamation: Noodle Stall

She moved through the crowd deliberately, puddles overflowing around the soles of her boots as she took each step, water streaking behind her in long broken lines. Compared to the hurried activity of the people around her, she looked like she was moving in slow motion. People gave way before her without meeting her eyes.

On the corner stall of a noodle house, a man who had grown fatter since the last time she saw him overflowed atop a stool like ice cream on a narrow cone. Hunched over the counter, he chop sticked a steaming, soupy knot of the thick buckwheat noodles into his mouth.

She placed a hand to the back of his neck and he stiffened at the touch of her cold metal skin. He made a move as if to turn around and she closed her fingers, the hydraulic presses in her hand preventing any further motion. Memories of seven men working on her, tearing apart her insides were crystal clear even seven years later.

Bending down next to his ear, she whispered, “You stole something from me. I'm here to reclaim it.”