12 May 2026
The Wet-Market Stairs
The wet-market stairs are steep enough to slow gossip and shallow enough to carry trays without disaster.
I come on Saturdays when the weekend crowd is polite and the vegetables still hold night cool under the awning.
The railing is painted green and chipped at the corners where bags scrape through years. I hold it out of habit, not need.
Upstairs: fish on ice, fruit arranged by colour gradient, a stall that sells only three types of tofu and refuses to expand.
Downstairs: shoes, phone cases, the repair uncle who squints at screens as if they were small animals.
I buy kai lan because the bunch looks honest. The auntie ties it with a rubber band and asks no questions.
On the stairs I meet the same neighbour every third week. We discuss weather the way people discuss weather when they do not want to discuss anything else.
Mid-morning light cuts diagonally through the stairwell and turns dust visible. I pause one landing longer than necessary to watch it.
The market is not a discovery blog. It is Tuesday and Saturday reality — price tags without drama, queues without performance.
Carrying bags home I take the slower lift because my hands are full and pride is temporarily unavailable.
At the flat I wash greens and put the kettle on. The stairs note is finished before lunch.