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By Kriegel H. P.

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More at myself. I’m used to combat situations where I can trash about recklessly or covert ops where no one knows what I can do and I operate with impunity. To do this right I have to blend in. I have to have total access to my skills and not look like an epileptic who forgot his medication as I utilize them. Chewing gum and walking. It shouldn’t be hard, but it’s the price I’m paying for living in virtual solitude for the past few years. I can’t remember the last time I was in Paris. Razor-neck tends to stay away from tourist traps.

Tamara, they call the girl, keeps her hair long, down to her waist. She’s a camera hog, looking almost inappropriately 38 THE LIMINAL PEOPLE at the lenses trained on her father. Yasmine has a put-on smile, while authentically trying to hide from the flashbulbs behind her husband. She doesn’t play the ethnically ambiguous wife of the up-and-coming politician very well. The thirteen-year-old is in front of him; hand on her hip, leaning forward in a pose she’s seen in a thousand music videos. She’s more focused on the humor of the situation than anything else.

I told her that I was in love with someone else once. Before her father. ” I’m too loud. It’s a novice mistake of mine, to shape my vocal cords temporarily for greater volume. Maybe the cooks in the back didn’t hear, but everyone else does. I shake my head slowly, preparing to apologize. “I . . I wasn’t going to use that word,” she says. ” “I . . can’t apologize for that, Tag. I was younger then, harsher. I didn’t mean to . ” She’s expecting me to stop her. I don’t even try. ” “My daughter didn’t run away.

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