Being sold at auction isn't so bad. I recommend it if you get the chance, not that you have a choice in the matter. Careful hands to tend to you by day, on display, locked away safely at night in a cool, dark place. I get a tag, a label, a moniker: Lot 378. My identity, distinguishing traits, and provenance delineated next to my photo in a glossy brochure. The Tyrian purple backdrop they so thoughtfully chose sets off my ghostly pale complexion so I almost appear to glow.

My new master -- companion, caretaker -- was number 91 at the auction. He prefers to go by Steve. Or maybe Steven. We're traveling for the first time, Steven and I, and I'm nestled in a bed of some sort of padded satin, I think. I don't really know from textiles. I'm not sure what kind of terms we're going to be on. I don't know yet how serious he is, if I'll be suffocating under a UV-filtered plexiglas cage, kept at a constant temperature of 18 degrees Celsius and a relative humidity between 45 and 50 percent, as diluted sunbeams sweep across me. Or perhaps I'll be tickled by dust as I sit atop a grand piano's crackling veneer. Can I call you 91, Steven? I'd feel more comfortable that way until we get to know each other better. You've looked, examined, evaluated, but you haven't even touched me yet. I'm yours -- what are you waiting for?

Traveling is to me a lot like being still. We're moving at a steady rate or not at all, but the slight vibration of everything around me suggests the former. I'm still not entirely accustomed to this, the way everything is smaller and faster than what I used to know, nothing like the rhythm of wheels over paving stones anymore. What would my Maker say, to see this world I've ended up in? Everything new is polished to a shine, and grows pitted and rough over time, instead of being created imperfect and being smoothed by use and a thousand touches, the best-loved becoming slick as silk in time (I knew silk once -- I'll never forget it as long as I exist).

Now I know we've been moving because we've stopped, and swerved a little to the side. Faint daylight filters through to where I am, and suddenly I'm lifted up, being carried away. 91? Are we here? Something's not quite right, though. It's like ... yes, I know this feeling, being carried at a slight angle; it almost always means I'm being balanced between arm and hip. Men don't usually do this, not with me. 91 comes with a woman? I didn't have that impression in the auction hall. What other surprises are still to come?

This part of the journey doesn't last long at all. I reckon we can't have gone far. I'm lowered -- a little awkwardly I think -- and come to rest, more or less horizontal, then there's a decisive thunk nearby. For a short while nothing happens, then I have the sense we're moving again, but after a while it's hard to tell anymore.

Then, fresh air and light flood over me. 91 is speaking, and I can tell he's irritated. I don't understand what they say, but I know people. Oh, I've known too many people to count. The woman continues on, trying to use her charm, but 91 is mistrustful now. Or perhaps he's nervous. Worried that I'll break. It's true, I may. Nothing I can do about that, either. It's always been my nature, and now I'm old, too, more fragile than before.

The woman strokes me gently with a cool fingertip. 91 grows more agitated and she backs down at last. Darkness and quiet close in on me again. It's fine, everything's as it was again, almost. I shift a little every so often, balancing on her lap still, I suppose. I feel us surge forward every so often, and I can't be sure, but it seems 91 isn't acting at all like he was earlier, before we stopped, before the woman.

It's hard to tell the passage of time. People are always in motion, doing things, all the time, but I can barely grasp anything shorter than a day, a flash of light streaking across the sky, followed by an interval of darkness.

Eventually, we come to a stop. I am lifted again, tilted at a slight angle. But then, something strange happens. I feel a soft blow, muffled by the satin, and I'm pivoting freely, unsupported. In this instant, it occurs to me that 91 and I may not get along too well after all. I bump against something else, and I tumble end over end ...

Ouch.

  "Roman glass. Second, maybe third century. Now will you please close the box and put it away."
  "I was just curious. Can't I just look? I'll be careful, promise. It's beautiful, so delicate and small."
  "You've looked, all right. Show and tell's over. I didn't invite you to poke around in my trunk. I don't even know your name."
  "Faye. You didn't tell me yours."
  "Steven. Hey! Don't touch that! Look, I'm doing you a favor, I saw you by the side of the road and thought you could use a ride, and I'll thank you to leave my things alone."
  "All right, all right. I'm closing it, see? No harm done."

  "Thank you, Steven. I really appreciate this."
  "What do you think you're-- give me that ..."
  "Hey.... Fuck."
  "Bitch!"