Record-player squeals, Asian woman, boredom quencher. The boys jam a few bucks in their cheongsam and they go all out. Navigate wan bamboo hands, cracked cranelike flutes, plum-bloom-kissed mangle of fabrics. Spices grind the sandalwood air. The hardest part was smuggling them inside the whites-only garden gate. Her eyes swell, pulped inky orchids and I quickly forget the milk-skinned farmgirl waiting for me to return from war, rip that ancient silk. Night as young as our sweat-licked bodies. Knocked over a jade vase. Spent the entire high-tea in a porcelain bathroom stall. Thought I would leave but god knows, it’s Shanghai.