The people have neutered and spayed them, taken away their instincts to fight and breed, and turned them into polite citizens. They roam in beggar’s packs and split the take in back alleys. They pant on street corners, waiting for the walk signal to cross. They ride the metro and count the stops and nobody bats an eye. In the shadows of the Acropolis Museum, a young woman watches as people make their way up the hill road, tourists from every corner of the globe, most wearing wide-brimmed hats and Bermuda shorts. Sandals they bought at a shop in Plaka and paid too much money for. They are a constant stream, so many more than there used to be back when the marble wasn’t worn and pocked and sand-colored. Barely twenty paces up the slope, a heavyset woman of around forty calls to her companions to stop. The day is hot and yellow. Sweat stains mar the back of the woman’s red cotton sleeveless top and darken the waistband of her khaki shorts. She stretches her arm out as if expecting to find the supportive grasp of her husband, but finds nothing and leans against the stone of the wall instead.
