so we’re walking back towards the club (where bands play music, not djs) and i’m looking up at a cartoon that’s supposed to represent people like me - dark, black haired, full lips, wearing a blue cheongsam, smile obscuring her eyes from being anything more than two lines. i’m trying to read the name of the bar on the sign alongside, but can’t make it out from that slitty chopsticky font. the doorman at the gate is wearing a red high collared chinese shirt, the kind my uncle wears on special occasions, only that the doorman is white.

“fucking orientalist place,” i mutter as we pass.