The Point Of The Needle

Itwas the chicken feet soup that did it. The soup and the heat under the tin roofs covering most of the market. And all the signs in Thai. She didn’t speak Thai, but she knew the word for chicken, gai, and approached the vendor, carefully enunciating the g-a-i. The sign said — or at least she thought it did — fifteen bahts for a meal, 15 written with Thai numerals looking like a curled-up snake and a small road map. The vendor smiled and took the lid off the large pot. The intense feeling of relief — she’d make it, no problem. She could buy food. Then she saw the chicken feet through the steam, the mass of scaly white skin on stick-like bones. She stepped back. “Gai,” the vendor said. If she wanted to eat, that was it. She gave him a twenty baht-note. He gave her three coins and a bowl filled with soup. <a href="https://shipwrightsreview.org/the-point-of-the-needle-185b76b9c34e">Read More</a>