A Shrine to an Unknown God

PURPLE

THIS WIFI MARISOL'S IN SEARCH OF is incredibly elusive.

The first shop we go into doesn't have it. We leave immediately. Neither does the second, or third, or fourth, or fifth. By the time we've gone into the eleventh store and there's still no wifi, I've lost all hope. And then we go into the twelfth store.

"WIFI!" Marisol sings, happily dancing around herself. "Oh, wifi, how I've missed you! Okay, first up, I need to call my mom! You three, go pick your shit out!"

She takes out  small bright pink rectangle she's been carrying around and taps on it until it lights up. On it, there is a painting of a pointy-eared dog with orange fur.

"Dog," I say, instinctively.

Marisol's face lights up. "Yeah, that's my doggie. Her name's Gucci."

"Shut up," says Ezra. "You did NOT name your dog Gucci. I wanna give her a little smooch."

"Is she a good dog?" I ask.

"The best."

"Is that a phone?" I gesture at the rectangle encasing the painting of her dog.

"Yeah."

She taps on it a couple of more times and presses it to her ear, causing it to ring shrilly. After a moment the ringing is replaced by a female voice speaking in hurried, emotional English. Marisol responds in the same tongue, and I want to stay and listen and watch, but Dahlia grabs my hand and drags me deeper into the store, Ezra beside her.

So, clothes. Okay, yeah. Clothes. What do heretics wear these days?

As Dahlia drags me I observe the people around us. They seem to be wearing so much more clothing than we do back home, but at the same time, they wear so little. The fabric is heavy and thick, yet everything is exposed—their legs, their arms, even the midriffs of some girls.

For the most part, their outfits seem to be made out of the same three basic materials. Shoes, a top half, and a bottom half that comes down to the knees of the guys and the upper thighs for the girls. Strangely, this bottom piece of clothing has two holes, one for each leg. Perhaps it gives them better maneuverability.

The store is nothing like what we had back home. You could buy fabrics and armor and jewelry and shoes, but you could not buy clothes. The wealthiest among us had slaves that wove their clothes for them, but the rest of us made our own.

And even of all the things that you could buy, they were all in little booths in the marketplace, each vendor selling a specific item. That guy specializes in boots, that one oils. You can get a good sheepskin from that girl over there.

But this heretic store, it's so much bigger, and full of so much more variety. Shoes, and clothes, and jewelry, and even makeup all in the same place. Although I don't see any armor or weapons.

I wonder, do heretic Greeks favor swords, or do they have strong archers? Apollonisi has always favored the spear, though I myself am partial to the sword.

Cold air blows all around me, ruffling my hair and turning my sweat to ice. A tinkly song plays seemingly out of nowhere. A curly-haired girl hums along while she shops, entrancing me. Some items of clothing lay crumpled up on the floor.

I've already lost Dahlia and Ezra. While I was looking around, they split off in their own directions and left me to my own devices. I look at the racks of clothing, running my hands over the fabric. My attention is grabbed by these things almost similar to the tunics that I'm used to, long one-piece things that will cover me down to my thighs.