Kiki returns at the age of thirty-three to the provincial town where she grew up until she was thirteen, in order to live there. But her name is now Lambros, so Lambros, who was once Kiki, returns to his hometown to once again encounter the love of his life—the one he left behind as a little girl—only to be fatally wounded again by the same love that was never overcome, to fight the male self against the female within the same body, where coexistence and conflict are inevitable, even for people who are born and die with the same identity.

This divided creature, with the leopard ring, this beautiful and self-destructive being who makes jewelry, who knows about literature, who has traveled around Europe, who speaks little and charms everyone, wanders through the bars, taverns, and backstreets of the provinces, struggling with the two genders within, with their genderless darkness and with their passionate love.

I liked to think of myself as a ruined artist, genderless, inelegant, immoral, and unhappy. I liked the Greek countryside, the sense of rusticity even in the red neon lights of Sparta, I liked the leopard robes from the Chinese shops, the rustic accent in people whose appearance was Pakistani or Slavic or Albanian, but whose accent was Peloponnesian. I liked everything Greece had to offer me: the dogs, the bad plastic surgeries, and the coffee shops. The crippled Greek cats. Their gouged eyes and their kindness. I liked them. The Greek garbage thrown outside the bins. The Greek dust on the shiny bars. I liked the half-full glass with the urine next to the frappe with the chewed straw. I liked the night when it mingled with the day. And the opposite. The full ashtrays. The color of lipstick on the extinguished cigarette butts.
My body on various chairs, slumping, not slumping, waiting, bending, thinking.