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Silks and SnakesShe moved through the Bombay marketplace with some sort of ancient secret hiding behind her lips. Her eyes darted like the arrows of Apollo about the crowded space. She was jostled and bumped, pushed aside and shoved forward. Her nose was thrust towards exotic spices that tingled with special purpose within her flesh.
She eyed silken fabrics and plucked at them with longing fingers. Her feet stepped over unsavory piles of dirt and dung and her body turned like a snake to move between the tightly packed people. Merchants saw her eager eye and prodded her with their wares, were then disappointed when she sprinted away.
All around her was the hustling and bustling and cheerful sounds of the bazaar, and it pressed against her skin like milk in a goatskin till it was granted entrance. She was overwhelmed with it. And then through it all, she heard the low growl that signaled his presence. Between turbans and out of place Westerners hats she saw his face.
He was a man oft
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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