“You’re going to love this goat.”
John was smiling like an idiot—like he always did—bronzed, brushed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He swerved the car down another side-street, sharp left. I could hear my baggage rolling and smashing around in the trunk as the tires landed back on the pavement. I was almost too exhausted to yell “shit!”
John just laughed and went on, eyes sparkling.
“It is the best goat you have ever tasted—that you will ever taste!—trust me on this one—and you will never have goat this good again—I swear you won’t. You will love this goat.”
The flight had been a bad one; Seattle to Istanbul, with a six hour layover in the Windy City. I’d lost track of how many hours it had been since I’d left my apartment. It didn’t matter. Here in Turkey, it was a bright summer evening, and my life was in John’s hands.
“His name is Sedat!”
“Whose? The goat’s?” I was clutching my door handle, whether to hold myself in or bail myself out I wasn’t sure. John snorted.
“No! The chef! He’s a genius, you know. Really—whoops.” We jerked to a stop in a dead end. John’s quick maneuvering put us back on the street as he continued, “Spectacular! He’s really spectacular. He’s got kids; he’s probably a wonderful father!”
Would I live to meet this wonderful man and eat his wonderful goat?