By Meiko Ko
I’m not sure how it began. It could be something I ate or drank, and looking through my receipts lead me here. There’s nothing unusual about the pub, in a modest hotel along a broad street. Tonight’s bartender is new, I’m sure I’ve not met her or I’d be hard pressed to forget her height, a man’s, her edgy hairstyle like a bird nest’s fern. She winked when she slid the cocktail across the counter, causing me the sensation of floating. I’m flattered, surprised of my appeal, which I thought must have vanished in 2021, the year Dominica left, taking along the poultry in the fridge, with a cold note in the freezer compartment saying, “This is what you owe me.” Yes, I’d forbidden her to eat pork. I dislike the stench it left in her mouth, but not my own.
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