The Dosa Man had relocated to a seedy alley with barely any foot traffic. His cart was smaller, with a tiny square of a grill and not enough counter space for his mise. I tried making dosas, failing with each attempt. Too thick, too burnt, too fragile, too thin to hold the fillings… The burner flames grew and shrunk and died of their own accord. To the left were two slabs of cooked pork, black, prickly animal hair sticking out of the skin, big globs of fat bulging out of every crevice. Dead meat, dry and tough as shrunken leather. As dead as the stiff grey rat cadavers swept into dusty corners.
I was running inside the wet stairwells, my panicked footsteps ringing in the ominous open space. I was in a boxed room, claustrophobic and defunct, dead creatures piled up in previously unknown nooks and crannies.
There was no way out of the building; its exits led to further exits which only led to growing piles of products, metal and plastic all hammered and melted into the same shape.
At the end, i was with a man, a man i had met that day. We were alone in the store; it was locked up for the night. All the red 80’s furniture looked like imprisoned toy soldiers, silenced and chained down to rest until the lights go on again in the morning, welcoming customers. The shutters came down, landing on the concrete in a jangly mess, a shudder traveling up their neat, parallel spines.
We were trespassers who felt they had every right to be there. Maybe we’re employees. Well, who’s to say we aren’t? We were two children in hiding, crouched underneath the counter, sketching a grandiose plan to pull the greatest prank ever; we were armed with a blueprint of the building. I liked him; he liked me. And we were just playing, two grown-ups having sex where they shouldn’t be. And underneath our childlike hesitation, we really didn’t give a damn about what might happen to us.