I pick bits of flesh from the little ribs on my plate and chew slowly. I am the ugly American. After dinner, I amble through the cluttered market lanes, past the young guys hawking packs of Marlboros, past the skinny hookers trying to meet my eye. I avoid the transvestites passing little cards illustrating all the sexual positions of the zodiac. At the food stalls, silent cooks, cigarettes dangling from their frowns, supervise smoking bits of fish and egg.
Streetlights are an accident and deep shadows carve every wall.
I want something more personal. Here the girls let their minds watch TV as they wait for their bodies to fetch a companion. If I wanted one to join me upstairs, I'd nod to the Mama-san and give her the number pinned to the chosen one's blouse. But blatant slavery doesn't do it for me either. I prefer the subtle kind.