Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway. She had just wrapped up a long evening answering the phone in her family's restaurant. She took the orders, and her brother and father cooked the food, while her mother ran the counter in the front of the neon food stall.

She was waiting for her best friend, but it looked like it was going to be a longer wait than usual. As she looked down at her red gown, she ran her hands over the cotton fabric and smoothed out some wrinkles, then created some more, and smoothed those out, too. She liked to imagine the fabric was a red ocean, and that she was the creator of waves.

The girl's mobile phone began to chirp, so she reached into her small black bag and pulled out the sleek apparatus. The digital screen announced the identity of her caller--it was her father. She didn't feel like answering, so she silenced the phone and tossed it back into her bag.

Another five minutes passed, and finally her friend appeared. It was good to see him, because the girl was beginning to feel a bit chilled. She rose, stretched, and slung her bag over her shoulder. She embraced her friend, and then they clasped hands and made their way down the mostly empty sidewalk toward the market. They were going to buy some snacks.

It was a perfect evening.