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‘Uh ... There’s this guy who’s supposed to come in from out of town to see me and I don’t know what to do.’
‘You mean the American guy?’
‘How do you know?’
‘You told me about him.’
‘I did?’
‘You said you were seeing some American guy and that he was imposing.’
‘I did? I don’t think I said that.’
‘Yeah, you did. That first night we met. When you were puking. Right after you puked. You were talking about some American guy, that he was a musician, a lot older. You said you were seeing this guy and you missed him a lot.’
‘I did?’
‘Yeah. And you said he made you that necklace.’
‘Oh god. Did everyone hear me?’
‘No, they were smoking. They didn’t care. You were just telling me.’
‘What else did I say?’
‘So is this guy a Rasta or what?’
My teardrop black-red-yellow-and-green talisman against violence.
‘No. I mean, I don’t think he is. I don’t know. I really don’t know. He’s from Tanzania. God, I feel sick.’
‘From telling me? From what?’
‘No. I just feel really sick. I don’t know how to deal with it, like, that he’s coming here.’
‘Well, he sounds cool, I guess. The Rasta from Tanzania.’
‘No!’
‘Why?’
It hit me then, everything that happened in Key West. I had not told anyone. There was just my scabbed-up cheek and my porn.
‘What’s the
matter, Myra? You can tell me.’
I had to speak or I was going to faint.
‘Okay, okay, okay ... I’ve got this picture in my head of him and, uh ... Okay ... It’s going over and over, it’s filling up my head, I can’t stop it.’
‘What’s the picture?’
I held on to a metal leg of the sink.
‘It’s his body ... ’
‘What about his body? It’s okay – just say it.’
