Noon was high, the sun blazed overhead, the sky was clear, and not a whisper of breeze stirred. The air itself seemed to have stalled.
The number 8 bus Zhang Xiaoman was on came to a halt at a station in the old city with a grunt, dropped off a few passengers as if shaking off fleas, and then trundled slowly away.
Standing at the curb, Zhang Xiaoman awkwardly felt the pocket-sized fold of his cloak in his pocket and gave a wry smile, shaking his head.
Throughout his journey, the rich smell of alcohol emanating from this little cloak drew the eyes of everyone in the bus.
Even with Zhang Xiaoman's thick skin, he couldn't help feeling his face heat up as a few old ladies on the bus whispered and pointed at him, giving him the kind of look reserved for social misfits.
Fortunately, although the bus was old, it was also quite empty, so it didn't take long for him to shake off that awkward situation.
