Emad dipped a saucer into his supply bucket of bird seed and placed it on top of two other plates. It was Saturday, the most profitable day of the week in the bird food business. And he was perfectly positioned in front of Istanbul's New Mosque. The city was full of traditions, although sometimes he wondered why they couldn't come up with a better name for a Mosque that was finished in 1665. True, it was newer than the Blue Mosque, but only by 49 years. It just sounded, well, never mind.
"Come for some treats, have you?" Emad asked the cat who perched unapologetically on his bird seed table. The cat did not flinch. Nor did she turn to look at Emad. They had a mutual understanding. Emad couldn't get rid of her, and she made him look like a nice, gentle man to buy bird seed from.
"Where have you been today?" asked Emad gently. He was lonely sitting at the steps of the Mosque even though he was surrounded by worshipers, tourists and busy spice shoppers. He took photos to pass the time between sales. It was the same camera he had had since he was 16: a 1984 Canon AE-1. He liked to take pictures of the birds, because they were tricky subjects, always fluttering about, but his business ensured they were never too far away.
Emad imagined the cat speaking to him.
"Why should you care where I go? You wouldn't last 10 minutes as a cat on these streets. You have to seize every opportunity, fight for every morsel and always put on an innocent facade when scraps are nearby. Speaking of food, I came here for the birds. Where are they?"
"There's probably a reason you travel solo miss kitty: you're too selfish for your own good. And you wonder where the birds are," exclaimed Emad aloud waving his left hand at the stubborn cat, "they're hiding from you. You're scaring them away!"
The kitten looked up at Emad as if she was the one doing the scolding.
"Don't look at me like that," he said. "You remind me of my wife. I come here to get away from her. I don't need your attitude as well."
The cat turned to stare back into the crowd, scanning for pigeons. Emad looked across the Golden Horn to the Galata Tower. The cat had something Emad wished he had: the freedom to roam the streets at any hour, visiting anyone he desired and discovering new hideouts every day. Imagine the luxurious life of a cat on the shores of the Bosphorus; an ancient waterway still yielding thousands of fish a day. Emad wondered if the kitten did any fishing herself or if she was sly enough to snatch one of the fresh catches from a fisherman's water bucket on the bridge. Umm fish. That's what Basha said was for dinner tonight.
When Emad looked back at his table, the cat was gone, but a flock of pigeons took flight en mass behind his stand. He heard a bird's chirp cut short with a hiss and a feline growl. A child screamed and a mother led her son away from the feeding.

Hakim leaned against the stone doorway and glanced over his right shoulder down the lane to look at the seething tourist thoroughfare of Istiklal in Istanbul's Beyoglu district. He cleared his throat and spat on the weathered stones below.
He retrieved his cigarettes and a match from his soft, tattered black jean bottom pocket. He could use a new pair of jeans but he would have to buy a new pair for his son Ishmael first. The 12-year-old boy would be a man soon, en shala.
He took the single wooden match and with a flick of his wrist struck fire from its phosphorus tip. Bringing the flame to his face Hakim set fire to his tobacco stick and inhaled the sweet, intoxicating smoke. Despite the blend with American leaves, he quite enjoyed Camels for the Turkish Samsun and Izmir tobacco. His tanned, wrinkled hands were covered in flecks of white paint and coal-black smears, but they hung appreciatively without assignment by his side. His smoking cigarette dangled from the side of his mouth. He ordered a Turkish tea from Imir, next door. He took the tea and set it on a table as he sat on the accompanying one-foot-tall cedar chair. He closed his lips for another long, relaxing inhale. His mobile vibrated in his pocket. A text from Tariq.
Hakim took another drag of the half-finished cigarette, stood up, removed the light from his mouth and rested it on a brick ledge. This response deserved his full attention. Tariq's message: "The Russians have arrived and will join us for nargile tonight." He hated the way the Europeans called it hookah.
Hakim started to tingle with warmth recalling the Russian Tariq was showing off last week. She didn't speak. She just sat in the booth corner staring at him, even though she was Tariq's, for the night.
"Nice work brother. I'll bring the Euros. You're a true friend."
By the time Hakim finished his text, his cigarette had turned to ash and the filter fell backwards onto the ancient stone threshold.

"She's at it again," said Edith to Frank as she peeled potatoes in the kitchen sink squinting out the window.
"Everybody has to make a living," grumbled Frank.
He shifted laboriously in a plastic-covered armchair reading his National Geographic magazine with a magnifying glass. He hated interruptions. This edition featured a story about the Amazon headshrinkers. He wondered what Edith's blabbermouth sister Judith would look like with a shrunken face all stitched up so she could never complain about him again. How glorious he thought,  but Frank wouldn't keep it around the house like the Amazonians would.
"I'm calling Judith," said Edith.
Frank passed wind slowly and turned the page to read step-by-step instructions for head shrinking. Pretty meticulous work just to prevent an enemy's soul from escaping. Frank wondered if the Nazis knew about this practice, on account of the detail-oriented nature of the process. The fuhrer would probably have a chamber in his bedroom just for his personal collection of defeated enemies. Yes, Hitler would have loved the headshrinkers.
Edith put down her knife and half-peeled potato. She picked up the cordless phone.
"Yes, Judith, it's me. That whore is putting on another show for us. It's the damn mattress they left in the alley. It's become her shop window. I've told Frank to get rid of it, but he says its the city's job. City hall says it's the Penner's job and all I see are her pathetic blow jobs."
Frank didn't want to move the mattress because although the local prostitute was a sad sight, sometimes he liked to watch. But, this morning he was too distracted with headshrinkers to sneak a peek.

Maria flipped her artificial blonde, wavy mane back and let centrifugal force fan it out. Staring up at the chains, she wished she felt as secure as each link. For now she would let the metal strain under her mass and motion. Kicking a pile of playground pebbles with a particularly powerful push, she grasped each chain and looked up at the sky. Her eyes zeroed in like a sniper on the 10th link from the top. The clouds swirled into a thin cotton doughnut against the afternoon sky.
"I want a turn mommy," said a toddler nervously hugging the red swing pole.
"What did I tell you about interrupting mommy's playtime? You'll get a ride when I'm done."
Maria lit a cigarette and continued to swirl with an absent look about her. The boy picked up a handful of pebbles and threw them at his mother.