Goosebumps

“One time, I saw a man outside my apartment, an old and ordinary Chinese guy wearing old and ordinary clothes. He was still, and lifelike beyond anything I thought possible of a statue. As I stood there, marveling at the dramatic pose, I thought, Which hands crafted this? What was the purpose of this masterpiece?” She turned one last time from the sunset. “Then he stooped down, collected his things, and walked off.”

“This is exactly like the Pygmalion myth,” I marveled. The breeze smelled of tobacco smoke, the incense coming off the end of my cigarette. I took one more puff, and trampled the embers underfoot as I checked my watch — almost time to go. “What made you think of that?”

She waited for a few beats, and spoke slower than I ever heard her: “Somehow, I knew that a statue surely has a creator . . .”