It took eleven nights to say the right name and score a meeting: --eleven nights in a cellar bar, where spoken Czech was currency that got you past 133 kilos of bald, bad news at the door. No one said it would be easy. Jay and Vitt, who ran their own arcane trade in the liminal world, were the ones who'd given him the names, the codes, and last of all, the address. “You're a fool,” Jay said: his American accent lost somewhere in the murky depths of his past. He was a skinny guy, black, with eyes like something predatory. Paolo didn't trust him. “I'd talk you out of what you're doing, if I could. But I know you, Paolo. So I'll save my breath.” He said where to go. He said who to meet. He didn't ask for anything in return: proof enough that Paolo had ruined things between them. Proof enough that they'd never see each other again. And now, at a strange hour past midnight, Paolo stepped along the serpentine length of Vodičkova Street, eating some strange species of hamburger. Something local. Pork, wedged between two chewy buns and dolloped with shredded cabbage and ketchup. There was grease in the food, there was bread, and that was all he needed: a cushion against the night's required drinks. “You must move slowly,” Vitt said, in his sonorous, Russian accent. “It will do you no good to cackle like an impatient chicken.” Twelve nights of patience was what it took to meet her. Charity. The woman Jay had known for more years that Paolo wished to consider. They'd been friends, Stateside; and then something happened. She left or he left, no one knew for sure. But they were both here now, and it was Paolo who needed her: a buyer for what he had, someone to take the load he could no longer carry. “We're art-trade,” Jay had said. “We don't touch tailored biologics.” And yes, the association was over. There were whole compacted layers of warning in those two simple clauses. “I know,” Paolo said, accepting Jay's unspoken terms. “But you know people.” He'd hoped that he wouldn't have to ask, wouldn't have to mention the one name Jay didn't want to hear. And no. He didn't have to mention her. He ate the last of his pork burger, stepping over the rough irregularity of rain-dampened cobblestones. He felt his toes spreading in his shoes, as if to add to his balance. He checked his reflection in a storefront window, but saw only a silhouette-ghost, haloed in blue casino neon. He couldn't make out his features, and so he could have been any John-Doe on a foreign street. The mass of what he carried itched along his spine. But he had a name. He had a contact. And tomorrow—or the day after—he could leave that hotel room, three floors above Wenceslas Square. He could get on a plane. Go home. Go somewhere else. He could do that. He could become someone else. And when he did that, he thought, he could see his reflection in a window; he could see a face. *** I didn't know whether to put this in "Atmosphere and Mood" or "Photomanipulation." I guess it's a bit of both, but with the extensive diffusion filters added, it's quite obvious that this image has been manipulated. As always, THANK YOU for viewing and commenting and I hope you've enjoyed this piece.