Skin

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The humid air coats my skin. Stalled traffic has snarly wolf-like energy. Motorbike drivers rev, petrol fumes smog behind them and the noise from their unsilenced exhaust pipes makes my whole body vibrate, makes my ears want to bleed. I keep going.

‘Hey Miss, Miss Miss Miss. Massage? Dancing? Taxi? Restaurant?’

‘No. No. No.’

Sometimes I smile at the people but mostly I try to ignore them.

Bony dogs rove in packs, looting overflowing bin bags and cardboard boxes discarded on the sidestreets. I breathe through my mouth to avoid the open sewer stench. The sun is merciless.

‘Yes?’ A broad-smiling waiter wearing a red batik bandana stretches his menu out as I advance. His eyes roam my body and he wiggles his eyebrows. ‘Yes, Miss, you will like?’

‘No.’

The footpath is uneven. Going soft through the markets. The people yell. Joke. I see open mouths and cracked white teeth. Goosebumps prick my arms.

Unwashed fruit is piled on tables, rotting in the sun. Mangoes. Pineapples. Oranges. Lychees. Bananas. Snakefruit. The pungent durian. Flies hover.

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