Manhattan's kitchens never rest at night.
The oil sizzles, the exhaust fans roar.
Li Zhe stands at the stove, spatula moving nonstop.
Blanching, stir-frying, deep-frying—the same motions, every single day.
Sweat runs down his face. He wipes it away; it must never drip into the wok.
Even in a city that grinds him down, he insists on holding onto that last trace of dignity.
He knows he isn't liked.
Conversations with coworkers are either silent standoffs or awkward exchanges.
Lin Guorong, the Fujianese boss, is sharp and impatient;
Zhang Jianguo, the chef from the northeast, loves to bark orders;
Ruan Ming, the young Vietnamese, hides his own loneliness behind loud laughter.
Li Zhe doesn't bother with them. He just bottles up his frustration.
There are no real fireworks in the kitchen.
Only smoke—and it clings to him everywhere he goes.
—
At ten o'clock, he pushes through the back door into a dim alley.
The first thing he does is light a cigarette.
A small spark, a cloud of smoke.
In this city where cigarettes cost twenty dollars a pack,
he smokes the cheapest kind—two dollars fifty.
Harsh and bitter, but strangely grounding.
Dragging his tired body, he heads for the subway.
The city around him blazes with light and noise,
but all he sees are dull reflections.
—
The train rattles out of Manhattan.
Leaning against the window, earphones in, he listens to a familiar song.
"After work, heavy-headed,
I watch the city at rush hour,
the silhouettes in the neon haze,
all rushing silently,
giving everything for a dream…"
The words cut into him.
Day after day: sweat in the kitchen, silence on the subway—
like an ant, working only to survive.
The melody softens:
"Why wear a mask and lock yourself away?
Why make life harder than it already is?
Look up—the stars are still beautiful…"
Li Zhe raises his eyes to the window.
The neon drowns the night sky,
but he imagines the stars anyway.
Sometimes people ask: "Do you like New York?"
Every time, he hesitates.
The city is dazzling, full of chances—
but he is still a solitary drifter.
To say yes feels dishonest.
To say no feels like betraying all the effort that brought him here.
So he just mutters, "It's okay," and leaves it at that.
—
Back in Flushing, he doesn't go home right away.
He slips into a narrow street and pushes open the door of a small bar.
On stage, someone strums a guitar, singing folk songs.
The voice is clear, yet heavy with loneliness.
Li Zhe sits in a corner, orders a Negroni.
Orange peel floats on top; the first sip is sweet, the aftertaste long and bitter.
He smiles bitterly—this drink is life itself.
The music continues, the light is soft.
With the alcohol and the singing, his thoughts drift back two months—
to Vancouver, the city he had lived in for ten years.
Ten years was long enough to get used to everything,
and long enough to grow tired of it all.
The same streets, the same sky, the same room, the same routine.
Day after day, year after year.
He felt the fire inside him slowly going out.
So he left.
Left his family, his friends, the city he could walk blindfolded.
He drove five thousand kilometers alone, east from Vancouver.
Through mountains, prairies, cities, rivers—until he reached New York.
Gas-station coffee, nights sleeping in the car, staring blankly at the endless highway.
The wheel in his hands pointed to New York,
but inside he wasn't sure—was this chasing a dream, or just escaping?
Vancouver's comfort was a trap; it numbed people, made them lose their way.
"New York," he pressed on the map.
This city might devour him, or ignite him.
Either way, he had to try.
But once here, he realized: not much had changed.
The same kitchens, the same exhaustion, the same loneliness.
The only difference: New York was louder, faster, harsher.
Even catching a breath felt like a luxury.
He often wondered:
Does changing places really change fate?
Or is he doomed, wherever he goes, to be a drifter?
The guitar still rings.
He drains the last sip of Negroni; bitterness spreads down his throat.
Maybe he didn't come here for answers.
Maybe he came just to keep alive the fire inside.
But the calm of music and alcohol always burns off by morning.
Tomorrow the smoke and shouting will smother him again.
He stares into the empty glass, knowing:
the real test is still in the kitchen.