Page 64 of Sensuality


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“You don’t have to go anywhere, Bonni,” Miguel said sharply. “She doesn’t need to leave. She has a home right here.”

“Right, until you find the next younger, sweeter thing to turn your head. Then what? You’ll put her out again?”

“Check your own glass house, Alex. You’re with a different woman almost every week.”

“So that gives you license to fuck my woman?” Alex asked incredulous.

“My woman, you mean,” Miguel countered as he hastily rose from the bed, grabbing his robe. “Ebony is mine, Alex. You know that.”

“No, Mick, she was yours, but not anymore.”

“Maybe I should get dressed,” Bonni said, scrambling out of the bed and hurriedly recovering her panties before rushing into the bathroom.

The two men were silent at first, fiercely glaring at each other, until Miguel sneered. “You think you’ve got a shot with Bonni?”

“More than a shot. Bonni’s mine, man. You need to get used to that.”

“Yours? Well, it didn’t look like that tonight.” Miguel smirked as he pulled on his robe.

In that split second, Alex advanced on Miguel so quickly that he didn’t even have time to raise his hands in defense. Alex’s big hands collared the robe around Miguel’s throat and Alex snatched him up close and hissed, “I expect you to respect what Bonni and I have.”

“You don’t have anything,” Miguel said.

“When you were with Bonni, I never touched her. But she comes here as my date and I turn my back for two minutes, Mick, and you’re all over her. What the fuck is that all about? You’re supposed to be mi compadre, mi hermano.”

Miguel knew Alex was right but he was too angry to think straight. He slammed his fists against Alex’s chest, and pushed

away from him, then began pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, gesticulating wildly.

“Bonni was the only thing that was ever mine, and you couldn’t wait to get your hands on her! You could have any other woman, but you just had to have Bonni. Why do you think that is?!”

“You need to get your shit together, Mick.” Alex laughed cruelly as he shook his head and walked toward the door. “Bonni is mine, and you put your hands on her. You know the only reason you’re still standing here drawing breath now is because I thought you were my friend. Consider that your birthday present.”

Without waiting for Miguel’s reply, Alex left the room and walked downstairs, leaving Miguel alone listening to the sounds of celebration and considering life in the coming year without the love of his woman or the companionship of his best friend.

Tomorrow’s Saints

Kathleen Bradean

Mamá wasn’t dying of anything, except embarrassment. She broke her hip. Instead of calling an ambulance, she phoned me.

“Me resbalé cuando estaba fregando, mi hija,” she explained, apologetic. I slipped while mopping, little girl.

The emergency medical technician told me that older women could easily break their fragile bones. I stared at him, wondering what old woman he was talking about. Then they wheeled Mamá past us on the gurney and, for the first time in years, I didn’t use my memory to filter the truth. She looked so frail, and her beautiful brown face was lined with wrinkles.

She looked even worse in the intensive care unit. Spindly metal IV poles hovered over the head of her bed like praying mantises. Machines beeped quietly as green lines trailed across their screens. Tubes were taped to her arms and under her nose.

“¿Cuando me puedo salir?” she asked. When can I get out of here?

It worried me that she’d lapsed into Spanish since having her accident. We rarely spoke it anymore. That was my fault. I wasn’t interested in anything that made me different. When she had called about her accident, I was shocked how long it took me to understand what she said.

“I want to go home, Esme.”

I grasped her hand, careful not to disturb the taped IV tube. “Sí, Mamá, pero…” I wasn’t up to it. I was sin lenguaje, without language. “Please let them watch you for a few days. After that, I promise you’ll go home.”

“Are your sisters here yet?” Mamá snapped.

Her flash of temper was comforting. She sounded more like her usual self.

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