Adi Leylaydi. Istanbulun en eski genelevlerini barindiran o mesum sokakta yer alan gülkurusu renkli evde bilinen adiyla Tekila Leyla. Öyle derdi ona arkadaslari, ahbaplari ve müsterileri. Öyle derdi ona bes kadim dostu. Hic istemezdi Leyla kendisinden gecmis zaman diliminde söz edilmesini. Ama iste kalbi daha az evvel susmus, soluk alis verisi ise hepten kesilmisti. Sehrin kenarlarinda bir cöp kutusuna birakilmisti cansiz bedeni. Gene de henüz durmamisti beyni. Calisiyordu hala. Tastamam on dakika otuz sekiz saniye boyunca.

In the first minute following her death, Tequila Leila's consciousness began to ebb, slowly and steadily, like a tide receding from the shore. Her brain cells, having run out of blood, were now completely deprived of oxygen.
But they did not shut down. Not right away...'
For Leila, each minute after her death brings a sensuous memory: the taste of spiced goat stew, sacrificed by her father to celebrate the long-awaited birth of a son; the sight of bubbling vats of lemon and sugar which the women use to wax their legs while the men attend mosque; the scent of cardamom coffee that Leila shares with a handsome student in the brothel where she works. Each memory, too, recalls the friends she made at each key moment in her life - friends who are now desperately trying to find her.