I’m sitting in a square room with mirrors surrounding me on all sides: walls, floor, ceiling. I know I should be wondering who’s behind them, but all I can think about is how I still look like a ten after all this time. From the side, from the back, from the front. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not arrogant. When you’re a ten, you’re a ten. It’s a fact.
I’ve got a few new greys in this mane of mine. A few more of them peppered into the stubble, but I’m not worried; if anything, they give me an extra edge. A wolf with a slither of dignity in his fur. I’m still admiring the fine line of my jaw when a hidden door within the mirrors opens and the journalist walks in.
I know who she is; I like to keep abreast of the ex-pat community. Foreign journalists don’t last long in Sonaya; either the hyenas
