She speaks like a job applicant. Her voice is smooth and bright, and she's stocked up on polite exclamations. I wonder what she sounds like angry or melancholy. Or better, honestly in love with something.
They act like dogs displayed in a pet store. In short turns, they strut and yap, trying to get a reaction from customers. They respond to cues. When they hear a word, they perform a trick or bark in a certain pattern. "The Economy." "Yap, yap, yap." "Immigration." "Woof! Woof."
"Who are you?" she says. And her friend replies, "I'm afraid to find out."
We're in a warm, dense forest. We could be miles from the city. Except sometimes, through the trees, we hear rap or reggae. Or a truck rumbling by.
The towering shrubs in the forest look like reptiles, rippling green and gold as they sun themselves.
I find myself in a situation, that isn't trivia game related, where knowing the capital of Zambia comes in handy.
Beyond the imposing gate is a field of weeds, waist-high. All that's left of a formidable estate.