There is a patchwork ant below me. She's buying cardamom. She has a flannel backpack,
which is full of spices. The cardamom always goes into the front pocket, and I can glimpse a conglomeration of colors, distorted and dulled behind plastic and glass. And the smell! Spices and sugars from around the world, blended into a single fragrance, hovering in the air thick as paste.

     Cardamom, mint, saffron, cinnamon, and a tinge of vanilla. This is her perfume, her identifying smell. I've seen her around Kapali Çarşi for the last ten years, ever since she was a child. She comes to market every day, and fills her backpack with spices and herbs. She might work in a restaurant, but her hands are too soft. She touches me, and sometimes even smells my shank.

     Standing here in the Grand Bazaar, I've seen every shade of Istanbul. Because of my unstable molecular structure, I have an acute sense of smell. I've rusted and absorbed every scent you could possibly imagine over the past 150 years. These things have become part of me, and will remain as memories long after I have crumbled away.

     People live in the Bazaar. It is a place of life, and also a way of being. I've watched the lives of countless shopkeepers, and seen every wanderer in Europe. Each person smells differently, glows differently. As a column, I have the distinct advantage of panoramic vision. I can take in a person whole. There are few words to describe the beauty of simultaneous realization.

     On this particular day, she buys two packets of cardamom. I think her name is Loila. She opens her pack, and I see a pair of eyes inside. Motion! The eyes ascend from the darkness within, and peek out. She has not closed the pack, and the eyes escape. They crawl gently down her dress, between violet flowers and green embroidery. They reach her shoe, and catapult off into the market.

* * * * * * * *

     In this world of giants, things go on forever. There are endless rows of trees, but they have no branches.

     The pounding is so loud it seems to be inside my head. The earth shakes as countless giants lumber past. There are flashes of Technicolor, and endless motion. The world is full of vibration.

     These giants wear strange skin. From my perspective, it is extremely garish. We lizards do not change our skin color on a daily basis. Our style hasn't changed in the past 300 years. These giants have flowers and fake leaves, stripes and polka dots.

     There are walls on either side of me, and I can see myself in them. I can see things on the other side, too. There are blotches of light in the night sky, larger than usual. I stay close to the walls.

     I find a cave, and crawl inside. There is a breeze flowing over my back, and it is cool. The world is divided into narrow slits of vision, and each one is in motion.

     I see her knee move past, and I hold my breath. I feel safe in this place of dust and air. But one can never be too careful.

     I can't go back to that glass box. Any lizard has certain requirements, and one of those is freedom.

     This creature collects us, but only for a week. She buys us on the black market from Egypt. We amuse her. After that, she sells us in the shadows of the Bazaar.

     They make skin from ours. That's what Snik told me. He was a good friend for six days. She took him to market, but something went wrong. Snik overheard things, and told me. The next day he was gone.

     I crawl back into the darkness. There are smells here, each a smoky distortion of the original. My feet grope over layers of brick, and past something jagged.

     There is a shard of porcelain here, dusty and old. There are scrawls painted across its smooth surface, strange and flowing. The edges have a tinge of brown, probably the remains of dirty water.

* * * * * * * *

     This is the place of my childhood I come here every week to buy seasonings for my father's restaurant but there is something different today I feel like I'm being watched which is probably natural considering I almost got caught last week and had to take drastic measures. You see I work for my father's restaurant but I am a cosmopolitan lady and have a business of my own and live near Beyazyt where I have a nice studio but sometimes I get homesick. The black market trade is usually safe but things are getting worse with environmentalists cracking down on the sell of young Nile monitor lizards and that is what I trade in. Let me tell you about that since it might seem strange a woman like me might engage in something like this even though it is largely illegal and usually frowned upon by those people of a cosmopolitan mindset. I have a taste for all things exotic particularly spices and clothing part of which includes a taste for boots made of lizard skin which are truly timeless and chic since a good pair of boots can improve a woman's wardrobe several hundred percent not to mention that many men find them attractive. Therefore I have an interest in these things and love lizards in general because they make good quiet pets and are more intelligent than you might think and even playful at times when they're young and well fed and not afraid. Therefore I play with the lizards for a week then sell them on the reptilian black market that has an operative in Kapali Çarşi in the heart of old Istanbul and I can buy spices for my father's restaurant at the same time this is actually one of my favorite pastimes. I love the market and always have I used to love playing with the vegetables especially the eggplant it tends to be quite popular in Istanbul and is fun to handle I love the color and the texture. Spices are fun to smell even though people here tend to be very conservative about such things many Turks enjoy ‘natural flavors' but spices are important for good baklava and other sweets not to mention soup and I love good tea. Kapali Çarşi is where I can find everything I might want even though it is labyrinthine and the shops make it easy to lose an entire afternoon wandering through the sunlit corridors and past everything you could possibly imagine it penetrates your mind and your bones and you can smell the place long after you've left.

     Anyway last week I was afraid the authorities were catching on and actually they probably were but at least they haven't caught me yet which is good because I don't think I could possibly stand a prison sentence or even a fine because these things are becoming serious transgressions. I'm at my favorite spice vendor now and have a young lizard to sell in a few minutes and I've arranged a meeting with my contact we need to talk about establishing a greater degree of secrecy anyway. The shopkeeper comes over with some tea and offers it to me this is customary and a nice part of shopping in Istanbul when one is thirsty this country has amazing tea like nowhere else in the world. I need some cardamom and cinnamon for my father this week the menu's changing and I'm looking forward to eating some new dishes not that I haven't eaten them before but a person needs variety. My taste is very particular which tends to imply ‘Champaign' in case you hadn't already guessed and I am very particular about my palate both from a quality and a diversity perspective. The spices smell particularly good today, and I stop to smell them and do nothing else but look up at the iron columns which curl into incredible forms at the roof and which I always love touching because they are part of the market and somehow stable even though they are impregnated with transience on a very physical level consider how these things smell after decades of being around spices and foodstuffs and people. In fact sometimes I like to smell the iron but one must be subtle about these things so people don't think I'm strange or demented which they might even if they understand on a certain level. If one leans against the columns and then twirls about and pretends to be occupied with one's purse then one can get a few seconds of privacy and understanding from the surrounding people and have a moment of transgression that is wonderful for the iron smells like my childhood even now. I need to hurry today though and I cannot linger because I need to meet my contact and sell this lizard and have a discussion with him about business and ensure my interests are protected long into the future because that is definitely important. I must be independent even though I enjoy the family business and spend many hours helping my father with the cooking and cleaning and even sometimes serving customers which has improved my sense of balance and also more importantly my ability to interact with people and to some extent even control their reactions.

     You might think I'm cruel and cold and incredibly backwards especially if you have a bias for environmentalism and the protection of endangered species which I totally understand. It must be stressed that I love animals and this is the place of my childhood and I work at a restaurant and I am an independent lady who enjoys particular luxuries. I do sometimes feel sorry for these lizards but one must make sacrifices and I eat meat anyway and that isn't any less cruel when one actually considers the facts that are horrific but necessary. In fact I feel sorry for the lizard in my pack now but at least he can enjoy the smells of my father's seasonings and his final moments with me will be enjoyable and he doesn't know what's coming in a year or so and besides couldn't understand. Lizards are intelligent but of course they are not capable of complex thought and are certainly a lesser form of life. To be honest and totally offensive I care more about my fashion that is important to making a good impression particularly on business contacts and on men than about these lizards I sell which are amusing but transitory.

* * * * * * * *

     I'm starting to get cold. There's a draft in here, and I'm surrounded by metal and brick. I wish I had polka-dot fur to keep me warmer. At times like this, the giants have a definite advantage.

     She must be gone by now. I haven't been paying attention. I'm too far back to see anything but a splotch of light. The pounding continues, and it shakes my cave.

     This cavern ends in a long, vertical shaft, and my claws don't stick to it. There's no safe way out. I imagine myself rotting here, my bones drifting into dust.

     I could be peaceful here. After death, the giants wouldn't matter. The vibration would become soothing. The light and the darkness would mix and become gray.

     I can feel the memories: a towering glass box, a woman with red hair, and a distinct smell of cinnamon. All these things are tangible now, along with memories of elsewhere; memories of the Nile I think.

     Everything fades so quickly.

     I will make an attempt to leave. This woman has ruined my life. If I die, it won't matter. If I become lost, I'll crawl into another cave. At least I'll have tried.

* * * * * * * *

     The pickles are smelly today. Lizards are my trade. I wish it'd rain it hasn't in a long time. I sell the baby ones at triple cost. They're easy to move. When I was a kid I used to play with lizards. These monitor lizards get huge though. Someone in Egypt reported being attacked by a monitor. These things actually have teeth.

     I'm a Catholic man. When I was little I went to church every week. One day I found a new place in the church. I looked up at the stone columns and saw a cobweb. There was a word written there. It said, watch.

     I've done nothing but watch. Loila supplies most of my trade. I take the lizards down the Bosphorus past rotting wooden buildings. I watch these things. My father said I should take up photography but not make it a career. I haven't.

     I've taken pictures, of lizards mostly. I also take pictures of smokestacks and soda cans. Some of the older neighborhoods are littered with cans. I collect the nice ones. The old ones are best; did you know they used to be made of steel?

     We meet here by the sign that says, Ruby Red. It's next to a pickle stand that's been here since I can remember. The pickles smell like vinegar today. I think they always smell like vinegar. They're onto her; she's probably got a tail. I can't be mixed up at the wrong moment. Watch.

     When I was a kid I loved the Bazaar. I used to play games here. There was a statue in my father's antique shop, and I played with her. She didn't sell until five years ago. It was a statue of Io, I think. She was Greek, anyway.

     Her eyes fascinated me the most. I don't think Loila would leave Istanbul. Her eyes were blank; I suppose it was her expression. On the surface she was sad but there was more. She was thinking about someone, but I never figured out whom. She was dusty. I wiped the dust from her eyes, but only from her eyes. This place suits Loila, she even smells like the Bazaar. She loves the Misir Carsisi, and always smells especially like spices and herbs.

     Anyway, this statue was made of bronze. Bronze is nice but it fades quickly. I wonder who bought the statue. I used to bring her traces of saffron, and leave them in her lap. Io was sitting on a gigantic fig leaf. She looked past you, no matter what.

     I met Loila in the Bazaar. We've known each other for ten years. We were both in school back then. We have the Bazaar in common. She's got nice breasts I'd like to touch them. I see red hair. Her dress looks like it belongs in a window. She sees me and I focus on the lizards instead.

* * * * * * * *

     I am worn by a reptilian gangster. I was made in China, and shipped to Istanbul in my own box. At the bottom of the sea there are a million dresses, decaying amongst the fish. I was worried about a shipwreck but that didn't happen. I'm safe, at least for the moment.

     I am worn by a spice gangster. There's something she never mentions. You know she trades in illegal animals, but that's not all. The dressmaker's Code of Conduct pledges me to secrecy, or I'd tell you.

     When they opened my box, I was in the most splendid place imaginable. I was in the midst of a grand market, full of people. They put me in a window and I could see outside. All the other dresses sold, but I was left in the window to watch. I saw every color of the world in that window.

     I like music. Loila likes music. We listen to many things, mostly Turkish jazz. I miss China sometimes, but I don't remember it. I know I miss it. I've been told that women in China have the best hands imaginable. Beautiful hands, and very skilled.

     I like being close to Loila. We fit each other well. She wears me every Saturday, when she conducts most of her business. She says I make her look cosmopolitan.

     I was the last patchwork dress available. I have violet flowers and green embroidery. I am the most powerful fashion statement made in years. Each bit of my pattern is sewn onto an individual strip of fabric, and then bound to me. I am very chic. I disintegrate into shades of red and orange toward my bottom, but in controlled streaks. Loila doesn't fully appreciate the way I compliment her two-tone eyeliner.

     Clothing has the opportunity to get extremely close to a person. We smell and see things from a unique perspective. We feel things in three-dimensions, and embrace a person whole. Our sense of touch is more acute than any other inanimate object. Loila uses mint lotion, and her skin is very soft. A bit stickier than one might expect, but extremely soft.

     Let me tell you a story. Once there were two columns beneath an orange sky. The columns were braced with wood, and I couldn't see the top. They went straight through the clouds. There was a little girl called Hysteria. One day she found the columns. The ground was littered with shards of Romanesque pottery, and cut her feet. She was dressed in a violet friend of mine.

     The girl looked up at the columns but couldn't see the top. Hysteria was extremely curious, but didn't know how to climb. Then she saw a glass of red liquid. The girl drank from the glass, and discovered it was wine. Good wine, like bittersweet grape juice.

     Inspired by the wine, the girl began to climb one of the columns. She climbed for six hours, and finally reached the moon. All she found there were the ghost of Io and a giant vase.

     "Why have you come here?"

     "I climbed the columns."

     "My daughter, I will grant you a single wish. But you must never tell anyone what you have seen. You may have anything you desire."

     "Oh, I wish to be a seagull."

     The girl became a seagull. She flew back to earth, and lives in the Bazaar even today. When someone is lost in a dream, the seagull becomes manifest. She flies above their head, and follows them around the Bazaar. She has been forgotten, and is invisible to the eyes of men.

     One day she will be noticed flitting amongst the endless banners. At that moment, she will once again become a little girl. I heard this from a corduroy shirt who studied the art of magic as a youngster. In her shock at being discovered, Io was deceitful. Magic is never a permanent thing.

* * * * * * * *

     Being a column is relatively easy. One does not have to move. Money is not a concern. And most of all, a column has the best view of any architectural element. Panoramic vision, like I told you earlier.

     The walls of the Bazaar are covered in advertisements, merchandise, fliers, and every other form of communication. This is a place shaped by the requirements of commerce. Between us columns is a stage that flows into infinity. We are the curtains, but without the curtains. We are the silent observers of this age, the most forgotten race of architecture.

     I can see and smell things, sometimes even taste them. Loila, I can taste your hand against my shank: sweat and dirt with a tinge of cinnamon.

     There is a constant echo inside me, a constant vibration from the Bazaar itself. This place is very much alive. Architecture is not stable, as people are wont to believe. It is a manifestation of transient needs.

     Loila has finished smelling me, but today she has a surprise. She takes a folded paper from her pack, and tapes it to my shank. The tape has an interesting flavor, something like rotting lemons. From my top, I can see the paper. It is colorful, and appears to be a kind of map. It bears a resemblance to this place: the twisting lines have been taken from the Bazaar and rearranged. There are images strewn across the paper, as though props upon a two-dimensional stage.

     She's never done anything like this before. A new business stratagem? A secret message? A map to buried treasure?

     A column observes. We have a structural function, but that is only secondary. Architecture is a force that shapes the minds of men.

     I will discover the meaning of this flier. I share this place with a thousand brethren, and we see all. We speak through the roof, in a creaking language derived from ancient Greece. Nothing can be hidden from the foundations of a theatre.

* * * * * * * *

     Loila has assured me we are safe. I've finished talking with her and hidden myself in a coffeehouse near the Old Bedesten. Her supplier is having a record year, and there is money to be made. Turkish coffee is an interesting substance. It's very thick and often sweet with a tinge of cardamom. Loila told me her plans, but all I could focus on was the shape of her lips. She appeared to be swallowing them between each word.

     "My dear J," she said, "I have found a way to ensure our interests are protected."

     "..."

     "I have another trade in the Bazaar this place is a maze and can sustain multiple ventures. On Saturdays I deal in antique photographs and paintings stolen by servants from around the city."

     "…?"

     "People don't know the treasures that lie dormant in boxes and picture frames appreciated only as whimsical relics of the past. There is a market for these things which tell the entire history of the Bazaar and indeed the city itself mostly among a select group of scholars at Istanbul Bilgi University."

     "…"

     "I post fliers around the Bazaar every Friday afternoon that have a collage superimposed on a disguised map that looks like a work of abstract art. To buy one you look at the map and find a fragment that interests you."

     "Do you want a pickle?"

     "Stop fooling around…each fragment covers a section of the Bazaar and to buy a particular piece you wait somewhere in that area on Saturday afternoon. The first person I find in each place is allowed to buy the work associated with it."

     "…?"

     "Absolutely there is a huge demand for cultural artifacts and especially visual media. Most professors are willing to pay huge sums of money for something that supports their arguments and we take special requests."

     "How does this connect to lizards?"

     "A customer supplies my demand for monitor lizards under the guise of academic and biological interest."

     "…?"

     "It does relate can't you see? I'll add a lizard to my weekly collage in a subtle manner and inform my clients this work is available to a single person. We'll communicate and be able to avoid surveillance because they're watching elsewhere. My collages are a common and expected phenomenon and the authorities will never suspect the connection they think I am a rogue artist."

     Women do not enter Turkish coffee shops. It is simply taboo, although the rule is unspoken. The lizards are still making me nervous. To my right, people begin to gather around an old man. He is about to tell a story. I'm afraid everything is starting to crumble. He holds a picture of a dog before his face, like a mask. He begins to speak in the voice of the dog. I watch him speak.

     I glide down the Bosphorus, past a conglomeration of old soda cans. The lizards are hidden in opaque aquariums made for transporting live seafood to restaurants. I am watching the soda cans glide past. Millions of cans, the Bosphorus has turned into a river of metal.

* * * * * * * *

     Everything fades so quickly. I have left my cave, and am determined to find her. She must be stopped. I have seen too many lizards disappear, and her feet are made of our skin. There is nothing positive about her temporary kindness.

     I will cast her down and tread upon her hands. I will stand triumphantly on her chest and proclaim her evil.

     You think a lizard incapable of solving mysteries. I have discovered the things in Loila's mind, and have a way to bring them down. She is not the criminal mastermind you might imagine.

     Her mind is patchwork. Her skin is patchwork and disturbing. She smells of strange things. She is the enemy of all lizards.

     I have spent a long time in this place. Measured from a lizard's perspective, I have been here six years. There is food in this world, and pools to drink from. After nightfall, all my necessities can be plundered.

     I have grown. I am becoming too large for my cave, which is a problem. One day I will find my way back to Egypt.

     This place never stops moving. Every night, the walls are different. The entire world is different. The night brings silence, but enormous energies can be felt behind each brick. This place never sleeps.

* * * * * * * *

     I have spoken to the patchwork dress and the lizard, and now I understand. Loila is a rogue gangster who deals in stolen photographs and cooking. She has sticky hands, and often smells of spice. The little girl I have watched all these years is cunning, and I love the way she feels.

     The lizard wants to stop her. The patchwork dress loves being worn, but is jaded. The dress wishes to visit her homeland. She has heard wonderful things about the hands of Chinese women. She will betray Loila if given a chance to travel.

     Both these creatures wish to be free. I have been trapped in this spot for 150 years, and can understand how they feel. Sometimes I dream about throwing down my burden and letting the roof buckle.

     I am undecided. The dress has told me the meaning of Loila's weekly collages. She has been taping these things to my brethren for the past three years. About once a month, she tapes one to me. They are maps for her academic customers. I have seen them come, old men huffing pipes and women in business suits. They do not wish to be seen, and make quick notes. These people smell like the inside of a library, and their hands are smooth from the constant brush of paper.

     I have watched Loila grow from a child into a confident woman. Seeing and feeling her touch is something I enjoy. The lizard and the dress have decided to bring her to justice. If they take her, I know something will disappear from the Bazaar. I don't believe in wishing things away.

     I could conspire with my brethren to crush Loila. The lizard and the dress have decided she is evil. We could drop a load of bricks upon her head. I know which restroom she frequents; the building could target her easily. I can imagine her smashed beneath a load of bricks, her blood the color of an advertisement.

     Death is not something I desire at the moment. I will need to be convinced it is absolutely necessary. Loila has visited evil upon the race of Lizards, but everyone is imperfect. This market is full of beauty, but it is also full of human nature. Why should I target my childhood friend?

* * * * * * * *

     There is something in the Bazaar that never sleeps I have always felt its presence brushing against my skin even as a little girl when I played amongst the columns this place is almost a physical manifestation of myself or perhaps the other way around since I've spent a good portion of my life here. I require movement and above all fear boredom and loneliness both of which are constantly at the fringes of my consciousness and cannot be extinguished. I have done wrong in many ways and sinned against the world or at least against my morality but it has all been justified by my needs they sometimes drive me insane I do not think any human is free from the taint of desire. I grew up here and am happy in this bazaar it is a microcosm of Turkish society and today the columns quiver beneath their loads and I feel a change in the air that cannot be described perhaps it exists only in the tangible clouds of saffron and cinnamon that linger in dark corners. History beats against the walls and banners flutter through the air as a great clash occurs between a million psychological worlds that are somehow distinct and somehow interconnected in the great web of commerce that permeates this place. There are two things I have desired above all else during my lifetime and they are success and acceptance which are both connected to my fear of loneliness but which transcend the mere human need to overcome the world of individuality without compromising its beauty. You might say I am driven and perhaps this is a bad thing because I will stop at nothing to achieve my goals so long as I can succeed in leaving my morality somewhat intact. Long ago I convinced myself that certain exceptions to the moral code are both necessary and desirable because the world is not a vacuum in which a prescribed set of actions will have the anticipated result there is noise and chaos and hidden information within the flickering images projected on the walls of Kapali Çarşi. I am a cosmopolitan lady, but that is perhaps superficial next to my true being which I cannot describe because I do not know the source of my beliefs. One day I will stand atop the world and understand everything my mind can possibly comprehend and at that moment I will be fashionable and chic and cosmopolitan and accepted and intelligent and respected and loneliness will have been overcome in my soul. Until that moment you can judge me and call me evil and vile and a victim of fashion and perhaps sometimes I am but you must admit we all have our superficial wishes but at least I see beyond them and am driven to something higher. I desire sex and understanding and acceptance I am human and look upon life as something to be manipulated whenever possible. Take me and fuck me and satisfy my desires for a moment and they will not be extinguished but will live on until that moment I transcend loneliness and live beyond you and the world you live in. I am perhaps selfish but not evil as I do recognize the value of other beings worth recognizing which of course excludes lizards they are merely toys in this universe that exists inside my head and extends into infinite space. The columns are perhaps alive but only because I wish them to be and at the moment my life is extinguished they will become inanimate matter worthless in this universe I inhabit. Before that moment I will recognize and examine every aspect of the life around me and perhaps inhabit a thousand beings for one can bring life to anything by merely touching it. I stand against the ages and watch and listen and am obsessed with myself but this is what makes me human.

* * * * * * * *

     I have promised the patchwork skin a trip to China. I will write a note and the skin will make sure it is found. It will read something like this:

Lost in loneliness, I have decided to take my life. I have always loved China, and would like to spend eternity there. Please have my body prepared for burial by the finest Chinese cosmetologists and my beautiful dress repaired by the finest seamstresses. Goodbye cruel world, signed Loila Yestivan.

     Loila will receive justice. I will leave this place, and find my way to Egypt. Everything will be made right. This woman holds the world captive, and thinks her actions go unnoticed.

     She lives in a dream.

     I have been wronged. Loila has no respect for life. If she realized the nature of her heart, she would commit suicide. Our scheme is perfect. She has already distanced herself from the world of life.

     I will return to Egypt. Her skin will return to China. The column has decided our actions are extreme. It will not help. But we do not require the assistance of a weak, rusted pole to deliver justice to a delusional woman.

     This place is fascinating, but it is a prison. There are a million interesting smells, and bits of microscopic garbage fill the corners. I love its beauty, but I must escape to something beyond. Above all, I will not rest until I have revenge.

     I will look upon her, and smite her down. The world of giants is not impervious to the intervention of a monitor lizard. She will not understand, but our actions are justified.

* * * * * * * *

     I have spent the night in a hotel closet. She has business in the morning, and does not want to be late. The Bazaar is just across the street. Today is the day everything will change. Our plans are perfect.

     I love being worn by Loila. She is a wonderful hostess. However, nobody can contain the spirit of a true fashion statement. Loila is driven to success, and is blind to everything else.

     She has mistreated me. Until last week, I let it go unnoticed. I have a tear on my lower back, and Loila has made no effort to repair it. She knows I have become flawed, and could easily make me perfect again. She could send me to the seamstresses in China, and I would be forever content.

     I can already see the wonderful colors. A wonderful culture, an exotic people. They are obsessed with dragons in China, and I hear they have beautiful ‘dragon dances' every year. I want to meet the skin of a dragon, and conspire to elope.

     Loila is putting me on. I cling to her skin, revealing minute details of her delicate form. I will wait until she reaches the Bazaar, until the lizard is near. He has prepared a suicide note.

     This is for her best, and it will also benefit me. This woman deserves death, and I deserve China.

     The sky is overcast. She walks through a portal and into the Bazaar. As always, she seeks out her favorite spice vendor in Misir Carsisi. She leans against a rusted column and closes her eyes. I see the lizard across the way, and he flicks his tongue at me.

     A large man puts his hand on my shoulder pad. Loila spins to face him. He wears a black shirt inscribed with the word, EnviroOrg.  She slips past him, and we dart among a crowd of cheap dresses and boots. The world is spinning, and it is time.

     I clench to her throat, and she tears at me. I hear her gasping for air, but she keeps running. I clench tighter. Her face begins to turn a disturbing shade of crimson-blue. I clench to her chest, to her stomach, to her neck, and she falls to the ground making small noises. She can no longer scream.

     The lizard plants the note in her clenched fist, and darts away into the shadows. Loila does not close her eyes, but stares upward. A seagull circles overhead, but she does not see it. I feel her recede, fall downward into the floor, dissipate into the air.

     The seagull vanishes into the roof, and I let her go. I am content in the knowledge that I will soon return to my homeland. In the hands of Chinese women, I will be whole.

* * * * * * * *