Small, pretends to be shy, adores attention. The market rages and whirls around her, she surrounded by family and neighbors. This is her home, where she is most comfortable playing:  flitting from stall to stall, twirling and dancing. Someone she knows is making my dinner. I could watch the morning glory wilt in the wok among the spices–I ask always for “a little” which to my delight is always nice and spicy–or I could smile at her. She might feign distraction as she makes sure I am watching. We are both grinning loudly, small children surrounded by chaos. People everywhere and noise–music, yelling, laughter–a din impressive. We giggle at each other, silently among the sounds our bellies jiggle. We are the winking eye of a storm, until my dinner is made. I briefly hesitate to leave her, but this is her home. She will not quite distinguish one smiling foreigner from another, I suppose. I take my place among the throng and smile a farewell. She is already bouncing away. My food is delicious.