The Country from Hell
You walk up the steep white steps to the hidden door on the second story. When you reach the landing, you see a shiny plastic sign with ultra-modern lettering that reads, in English, Speedi Apartments and Homes. Another damn real estate agency with big pretensions! There is one of them on every block, selling places to rich foreigners or to the occasional rich Iadian, who is never an honest Iadian. You now feel wet spots under both your arms. Flustered, you are about to turn away when the door opens.
A girl, one of those girls who dresses in wool suits in the dog days of summer, yet never sweats a drop, stares at you like she is seeing a Martian.
"Can I help you?" she asks, forcing a smile and addressing you in the formal, which seems preposterous since she is probably five years older than you. It is her way of showing her superiority to you. She can afford to feign politeness.
"No, thank you," you say, returning the pleasantry. "I was looking for the computer store."
"That's across the yard on the ground level," says a carefully modulated voice from behind a Persian rug and a big oak desk within the room. The girl inside is dressed just the same as the one in the doorway. They might as well be clones.
"Bye, now," says the girl in the doorway, now visibly smirking and standing rigidly, blocking your entry.
You don't respond, but glare at her for a second, turn back around and head down the stairs. As the door shuts, you hear them laughing together-identical, high-pitched whore laughter. You try very hard not to care.
Back in the courtyard, the sun is beating down even more intensely than before.
A girl, one of those girls who dresses in wool suits in the dog days of summer, yet never sweats a drop, stares at you like she is seeing a Martian.
"Can I help you?" she asks, forcing a smile and addressing you in the formal, which seems preposterous since she is probably five years older than you. It is her way of showing her superiority to you. She can afford to feign politeness.
"No, thank you," you say, returning the pleasantry. "I was looking for the computer store."
"That's across the yard on the ground level," says a carefully modulated voice from behind a Persian rug and a big oak desk within the room. The girl inside is dressed just the same as the one in the doorway. They might as well be clones.
"Bye, now," says the girl in the doorway, now visibly smirking and standing rigidly, blocking your entry.
You don't respond, but glare at her for a second, turn back around and head down the stairs. As the door shuts, you hear them laughing together-identical, high-pitched whore laughter. You try very hard not to care.
Back in the courtyard, the sun is beating down even more intensely than before.