pillow talk

It's the very last pillow in the shop. At US 4, I think it is a real bargain. I stand in line at this shabby zhing-zhong shop, near the fuchsia-pink dustpans and the plastic towel hooks, waiting to pay. I've been looking for pillows for ages. These days my son uses a cushion sheathed in a cotton case, his head dangerously wobbling off the corner when I check him late at night. "You're only taking one?" the cashier wants to know. This isn't a shop many (any?) whites patronise, cue all sorts of attention since I walked in. "There aren't any others," I say innocently. "It doesn't matter: I'll bring my own," he says. He looks at me slyly to see how I'll take it. After 10 years in Zimbabwe and four in libertine Paris, I'm still pathetic when it comes to being provoked. "I don't think my husband will be too happy," I squeak -- and remember all the times I vowed never to hide behind a man.