The alleyway reeks of goat, patchouli and tobacco.
She’s broken from the others, who are straggling towards the square to self-consciously order their Camomile, Russian or Lapsang Souchong teas, and she’s lingering in the doorway of a carpet-trader.
The coach tour was a dreadful mistake; yet another hellish week to go.
A face peers round a roll of flat-weave Kilim at her – the ferrety little man who sits two rows behind.
But probably not for much longer, judging from his expression.
Can it get any worse?
“Be still my beating heart,” he crows nasally.
The answer, plainly, is yes.
Thanks to Rochelle, for another week guiding the Friday Fictioneers through the maze of 100 word stories in response to a photo prompt.