Walking Home

A. M. Muffaz

I smell construction and gasoline. I wait as the cars whiz by, a china doll on this concrete strip. When I'm finally able to cross, the two Arabs in front of me laugh at my silly dress-the one with the fashion flaps tripping me up as I walk. I ignore them because the way is dark, and this company is better than no company at all. We reach the shop houses in front of my apartment. I smell kimchi and BBQ. The Korean restaurant is doing well, it seems. Headlights cut a path beneath my feet. I hear the whir of a motorcycle reverberating toward me like a lawn mower about to blow. I feel the knife slide. I don't see it, but I'm startled. I watch my handbag rip free of my arm. I fall. I don't know if I'll wake up again. I don't even know if it's my own blood I'm seeing. Things are too fast. Things are too slow. Funny how I think of home.