calculating a risk

The back room of Mrs. Wang’s Laundromat. A circular chamber with boxes stacked against the walls, muffled voices in rooms without doors. Dusty floor and walls lined with newspapers that echo tragedies. Two young women, dressed with eerie elegance, enter the chamber. They looked at me for a second and immediately dismissed me. Mrs. Wang appears and walks toward me. She asks me for a few more minutes while she says goodbye to the novices. She calls them novices and at that moment they turn to look me straight in the eye. They want to know if I recognize the plot, the action, the pain threshold. I ignore their stares and take Mrs. Wang’s hand to emphasize the importance of our meeting. She smiles at me for a moment and walks away, dismissing the novices who are now watching me with the face of someone calculating a risk. A man crossed the room with a huge bird perched on his leather-covered forearm. He stops for a moment to give it a piece of raw meat. The bird is not interested in anything but blood and soft tissue. I recognize the same need and take a deep breath to control the desire. Mrs. Wang speaks softly and makes slight hand gestures that pacify the mood even though the words speak of death and decay. There comes the smell of something being spilled somewhere. There comes the sound of something spinning on itself and squeaking. The novices hugs Mrs. Sui warmly and walk toward the exit. As they pass me, one of them stops for a moment to look at me closely. She whispers to herself “so it’s you” but lets me hear it. She wears her blouse open and I can see how her breasts are born. A small tattoo on her right breast. A sign, a mark of belonging, a commitment. She lets me see her tattoo so that the image is stored in my mind and won’t leave me alone, flitting around like that huge bird in the cage of questions one asks when one has no answers. She wants me to imagine it. She wants me to imagine everything.