The traffic light turned green and the roar of cars, motorcycles, and tuk-tuks was so loud that Dim saw the window of the Robertson department store vibrate. Then the vehicles set off and the
long red silk dress in the window disappeared behind them, into the darkness. She took a taxi. Not a bus, which would have been crowded, nor a rusty tuk-tuk; a taxi, with air conditioning and a driver who kept his mouth shut. She leaned her head
back on the cushion and tried to enjoy the ride. No problem. A moped overtook them like crazy and the girl on the back seat, holding on only by a red short-sleeved shirt, with helmet and visor
, turned and looked at them with an empty gaze. Hold on tight, Dim thought. On Rama IV Avenue, the driver tucked in behind a diesel truck that was spewing smoke so thick and black that it was impossible to make out its license plate. Passing
through the filters of the air conditioning, the smoke cooled and became almost odorless. Almost. Dim discreetly waved her hand to show her discomfort and the driver, after looking in the mirror, changed lanes. No problem.