​Rick Edelstein was born and ill-bred on the streets of the Bronx. His initial writing was stage plays off-Broadway in NYC. When he moved to the golden marshmallow (Hollywood) he cut his teeth writing and directing multi-TV episodes of “Starsky & Hutch,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Chicago,” “Alfred Hitchcock,” et al. He also wrote screenplays, including one with Richard Pryor, “The M’Butu Affair” and a book for a London musical, “Fernando’s Folly.” His latest evolution has been prose with many published short stories and novellas, including, “Bodega,” “Manchester Arms,” “America Speaks,” “Women Go on,” “This is Only Dangerous,” “Aggressive Ignorance,” “Buy the Noise,” and “The Morning After the Night.” He writes every day as he is imbued with the Judeo-Christian ethic, “A man has to earn his day.” Writing atones.

​                  Women Go On by Rick Edelstein
 
 
            Entering her modest apartment Imara was dressed more formally than usual as a result of going to church where her younger brother’s body lay in a casket too expensive. She sat down heavily into the irregular cushion of the worn arm chair, world-weary and bone-tired, staring into space trying to understand the loss. Imara was a deeply intelligent woman with righteous values but nothing seemed to fit. DC’s death, a  failed marriage to the wrong man, a decent job as manager-of-the-month at I-Hop but hardly a meaningful vocation. She stirred, feeling something under the aging cushion, retrieving a remote for the stereo and inadvertently pushed the play button ensuing  the sound of Iggy Azalea rapping, “Fancy”.  Surprised, Imara shook her head, a half  smile at how ludicrous is her now-dead brother’s favorite, booming the infectious bass line, she rose and walked--in rhythm--to the kitchen area, poured water, drank, picked up the sponge and wiped off the already-clean counter. Again. And again. The doorbell rang. “It’s open, Thembi.”
            Thembi, a woman of kindness and strength entered carrying car keys and a full shopping bag, “Finding a parking spot  for your car on other-side-of-the-street parking-day is...” Hearing music, “What is that?”
            “DC’s favorite, Iggy Azalea.”
            “Iggyzalea, sounds like an allergy which gives you a rash.”
            “I can hardly understand what she’s saying but I like her sound.”
            “I’ll bet she’s just another white girl trying to be black, right?”
            “She’s from Australia and used to clean houses with her momma. She earned her rap cred according to DC.”
             “Give the ignorant azaleas a rest, please.”
            Imara turned off the music.
            Holding up the keys Thembi asked, “Where should I put these?”
            “Under the sink behind the cleanser.”
            “What?”
            “Habit. Hide the keys so DC wouldn’t rip off the car. Put ‘em anyplace.”
Thembi dropped the keys on the nearby table, went to the kitchen area with her bag, taking out a bottle of bourbon, six pack of root-beer, a small bottle of Vanilla extract, opening the fridge, taking  out ice cubes, proceeded to mix two drinks. “Time for the wake.”
            “Wake? Just the two of us?” 
            “Tradition. I’m fixing a little pick-me-up for us.”
            Imara sitting, staring into space again.
            “Hello! You’re doing that. Don’t disappear on me, Imara.”
            “Why do they do that?”
            “Because, would answer most why’s but to what is your particular why referring? Notice I didn’t end the sentence with a preposition, said the English teacher at a deteriorating inner city High School. No applause? Okay, why do they do what, Sissy?”
            “Open casket. DC’s face looked like an abandoned car.”
            “I thought he looked at peace.”
            “You’d find something positive in hell.”
            “If it’s the destination of DC’s dealer, positive as hell can be. Oops, she’s disappearing again. Talk what you’re thinking so I don’t feel alone.”
            “When I visited him in jail bringing cigarettes and macaroons...”
            “Macaroons?”
            “His favorite. Sonny was clean in prison.”
            “Which is the purpose of jailing an addict, thank you.”
            “He swore he’d never go back when he got out.”
            “Don’t tell me you believed him.”
            “His exact words,” she said imitating Sonny, ‘I swear, Sissy, ghosts been chasing me all my life but that’s over.’”
            “Uhmm hmmm.”
            “Hour and twelve minutes after he was home, all of seventy-two minutes, dealer connected.”
            “I tried to drown my sorrows but the bastards learned how to swim.”
            “You just made that up, Thembi?”
            “Frida Kahlo.”
            Imara pointed to framed photo of Frida Kahlo and one of her paintings, “My hero. Frozen in bed and still painted her butt off. Strong sister.”
            Thembi brought over drinks for each and toasts, “Here’s to Dion Charles Johnston.”
            “To DC.” She sipped, scowled, “What is this, Thembi?”
            “Bourbon, root-beer with a soupcon of vanilla extract, courtesy of mix-master supreme, yours truly.”
            “This is terrible.”
            “DC loved it.”
            “A junky’s taste buds are hardly a recommendation.”
            “Don’t call him that.”
            “Why not. That’s what Sonny is...was.”
            “DC’s dead. The least we can do is respect.”
            “Respect. Don’t speak ill of the dead. Please, give this sister a break! What was was and what is is. Being dead doesn’t alter the truth.”
            “He was your kid brother, Imara!”
            “And he was your cousin. How much did he rip you off for, Cuz?”
            “Who said he ripped me off at all?”
            “Thembi...”
            “All right, all right. Last time was one hundred and eight dollars.”  
“One hundred and specifically eight. Probably what he owed his dealer.”
“He swore he’d pay me back the first advance he got.”
            “Advance?” She pointed to the open nearby box with DC’s writing, “I wanted to submit his writing to online sites, even create a blog but no, he kept saying,” imitating Sonny again, ‘I’m not ready yet, Sissy.’ Oh God, Thembi, DC wrote  for who? Me, you, jail buddies?  Advance? Sonny was into retreat. “
            “But I still liked his writing.”
“Me, too.”
“Uhmm hmmm...and how much did he rip you off for, Sissy?”
            “Raided my bag when I forgot to hide it and my TV, almost a brand new Samsung.”
            “Wasn’t all that new, I was with you when you bought it, remember?”
            “And my old car. I was tempted to call the cops.”
            “That clunker was ready to die. You got more insurance money than what it was worth. Besides, a sister can’t call the man on family.”
            “Can’t call the man on family. Yes, sure, we ignored the reality and supported the illusion, hope against hope that someday he would kick and publish and...”
            “Come on, Imara, if all we had in this life was everyday doings without striving, without hope, we’d suffocate under the white man’s cushion of reality.”
            “So we played the game with Sonny.”
            “That’s part of loving somebody.”
            “The gun wasn’t even loaded.”
            “The cop didn’t know that.”
            “I’ll bet Sonny didn’t either.” Pointing to the box of writing, “I don’t know what to do with these.”
            “That’s all of his writing?”
            “Smack fantasies.”
            “More than that. DC’s writing was good, not just rantings of an addict. He once sent me something from jail. It was called, ‘Spread Your Hustle.’ The boy could write.”
            Imara sighed a sound of resignation, “Yes, he could. Did he ever show you his dirty stuff?”
            “DC wrote porn?”
            Imara went to box and dug in. “Hid it in the bottom.”
            “Any good?”

​Finding a few tattered pages, “Some funny, some rank, some I got to admit made me moist. Here it is. Dig this, Thembi.” Reading DC’s words, “The roses died but the scent lingers. I touched her soft spot which blessed my fingers.”
            “Go on, DC! Whew, the boy is dangerous.”
            “Was.”
            “Was.”
            A knock on the door to which Imara whispered to Thembi, “I am not up for company.”
            Knock again.  Thembi rose, “I’ll get it.”
            “Whatever they’re selling, Thembi, I am not buying.”
            Opening the door to a substantial man, Ambrose Franklin, Thembi’s less-than-appreciative response, “Oh, you.”
Ambrose nodded, “Hello, Thembi. How are you?
“I’m handling things. Come in, I guess.”
Ambrose entered facing intense antagonism from Imara. “What are you
doing here?”
            “I heard about DC.”
            “Body’s on display at the church of Saintly Hollows. Arlington and...”
            “I know the location, remember?”
            “Oh, right.”
            “Can I sit a spell?”
            “Why?”
            “Long walk from the here to the church.”
            “Still don’t have a car?”
            “It’s in the shop.”
            Imara grimaced and “Uhmm hmmmed,” rather than say a derisive, “And you want me to believe that you have a car!”
            Thembi feeling claustrophobic witnessing this corrosive scene tried to lighten things up, “Ambrose, can I fix you a drink?”
            To which Imara was less than pleased, “Thembi!”
            Thembi insisted, “History does not mean we can’t be civil. Particularly today.”
            “Nothing civil about DC’s demise or present company.”
            “Ambrose, want a drink or not?”
            Ambrose turned to Imara. “Your call.”
            To which Imara scythed, “Oh really?”
            “Your home, Imara. I got to respect that.”
            “Listen to the man, Thembi. Respecting me.”
            To which Thembi quietly imitated Aretha, “R – E –S –P –E – C- T..”
            “What the hell, let’s play it out.” Imara said. “Fix the man a drink, let’s indulge in small talk and Mister Franklin can tell us where he learned respect all of a sudden.”
            Ambrose refused to bite into the vitriol. “Not all of a sudden, Imara. Eight and a half years now, at least.”
            “How time flies when you’re having fun,” Imara cut him.
            “Can we talk...I mean real talk?”
            “Sure. What’s the subject, Ambrose? Let’s see, real talk? Okay the real weather is changing even though too many climate-change denying stupid white men...”
“Redundancy,” Thembi cracked while mixing his drink.
Ambrose, “Things change. I’ve changed.”
            Imara, “The only change I believe in are two fives for a ten.”
            Thembi finished mixing the drink, handing it to Ambrose, “Maybe you two should be alone so I’ll just...”
            To which Imara slammed, “Don’t you dare leave, Thembi.” Turning to Ambrose, “You’ve got nothing to say to me that I want to hear.”
            “I need to say it anyhow,” Ambrose insisted. “All these years since...well I realized I was messed up...and some other dudes were just the same...found a...I don’t know what to call it...a group of, yeah, messed up men meet once a week with a therapist sort of guiding things.”
“I am not your friend, Ambrose, so sharing your tales of woe and redemption are not in my interest.”
He rolled over Imara’s protestations, “When my mother kicked me out of the house, two months shy of fifteen I think...”
            “We all come from someplace so don’t give me your history as an excuse for your ...you really want to get into this, Ambrose, because if you do, this woman will show no mercy.”
            “Okay, okay, you’re right but...please, Imara, just hear me out...I found out some things that I just didn’t know...realize...that I never  fit...didn’t fit in the family I was born to...didn’t fit in schools...didn’t fit in jobs...and didn’t fit in being married.”
            “Can I get a second on that,” Imara hurled.
            “I know I hurt you and I’m extremely sorry so...”
            “Hear that, Thembi. The man is sorry.” Imara threw the words at her target, “You know where you can put your sorries, Ambrose?”
            “I was ignorant and took it out on you but between me and you I meant no...”
            To which Imara furiously cracked, “There is no more between, Ambrose Franklin. To this woman you are a chasm, a hole that has no bottom so the best thing for you to do is remove your sorry self from these premises poste haste.”
            “What I did was...”
            Imara turns to Thembi, “Was I not clear enough?” Then spun back to Ambrose, “Read my lips, Ambrose, I...”
            “I will speak my piece, Imara. The things I said to you were...were reprehensible and I know that now but...”
            “I did not know that you even knew that word, reprehensible. Whoring around, insulting me when I objected, dissing my entire dark-skinned family...reprehensible? How about deplorable, vile, despicable? I am running out of appropriate adjectives so I think it is time for you to drink your drink, pay respects to DC and do not, Ambrose, do not, N-O-T, knock on this door ever again meaning never.”
            Ambrose put down his drink, stood and said “I remember a different Imara who was more kind, softer, not so...”
            Imara froze him out with, “Kind ‘n soft went out the window well past a certain midnight smelling like some cheap whore’s perfume when you hit me.”
            “I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
            “My right ear which still rings on rainy days knows what you were doing.”
            “I don’t drink no more. I got a steady job. I’m going to night school for...”
            “Why are you still here!”
            “Maybe hoping you’d forgive and forget that...”
            “Only a fool forgets that a man beat on her and this girl’s momma didn’t raise no fool!”
            Ambrose nodded, downed his drink, walked to the door, stopped. “Where and when is the funeral?”
            “No funeral. Donating his body to the hospital for intern learning.”
            Thembi was surprised. “You never told me that.”
            To which Imara retorted, “Wasn’t a committee decision. He’s my brother. Blood decides.”
            “But the thought of interns cutting him up, Imara, I just...”
            “There is no him Thembi. What was DC is long gone. Maybe his body being of  use will get him good points wherever he’s going.” Imara looked at Ambrose. “The same church we were married in now has my dead brother. Goodbye, Ambrose.”
            “If you’ll just give...”
            “What is it about goodbye that you don’t understand?”
            Ambrose let out air like a tire suddenly gone flat, mumbled something and left.
            Thembi said, “You never told me he hit you.”
            “And ruin your positive outlook on life?”
            “That’s unfair.”
            “Yes, it is. Okay, he hit me and when he was drunk his two favorite words were bitch and cunt.”

​Thembi grimaced, “Men. No wonder I’m gay. I would implode if some man called me that.”
            “You implode, I explode. When he hit me I called the cops...and don’t tell me you can’t call the man on family but Ambrose stumbled out before they came and I had a miscarriage and can I have another one of your terrible drinks?”
            “Coming up.”
            “When did you know?” Imara asked Thembi.
            Mixing drinks, “Know? Know what?”
            “That you were gay.”
            “I was born liking women and uncomfortable around men. Even my daddy, he was sort of, no, not sort of, he was so detached he felt uncomfortable when I hugged him. It never bothered you did it, Sissy?”
            “Bother me? Shiiiit...I might have been better off if I was gay.”
            Thembi playing, “It’s never too late, baby.”
            ‘What, and ruin a good friendship.”
            “Actually, but don’t tell anyone, we’re not all that different from straights. Gay women fight and argue and even some butch women go rogue and hit their partner.”
            “Ever happen to you?”
            “I detest confrontations. When human frailties got out of control I went for rapid closure, thank you, taking refuge in my books, in Harriet Tubman High School dealing with the kids who think they’re so different but all dress the same, and when things get too heavy inside I indulge in TV mind-candy and hang with my best friend, Imara Johnston.”
            Imara probed, “And that’s enough for you? You don’t miss...you know?”
            “Missing’s part of the game, Sissy. We have to make peace with that, don’t we?”
            “How do you do that?” Imara asked.
            “What?”
            “Find a positive in a negative.”
            “God’s mystery.”
            Imara wasn’t buying. “God’s mystery. Another cliché to hide out in.”
            Thembi asked, “You no longer believe in God?”
            To which Imara responded wryly, “Not really...but I still talk to Him.”
            Responding to the doorbell ring Imara jumped up and moved quickly to the door, “I told Ambrose never to...” but when she swung open the door ready to battle, no Ambrose.
            Standing there were two men she had never seen before. Bubu, short, stocky, a face trying to smile but looking more in pain than happiness. With his buddy, Stretch, a tall man so thin he must avoid heavy winds, wearing glasses with a tape over the bridge. Bubu was carrying a six-pack of beer and Stretch, with a box of donuts, facing Imara who automatically said a chilled, “Hello,” assuming they got the wrong door.
            Bubu knowing he was in the right place, “All right!”
            Imara asked, “Can I help you?”
            Stretch chimed in, “We been listenin’ to the grapevine...”
As usual they completed each other’s sentences, Bubu said, “Learnt about that cop burning Dion Charles Dubosees.”
            Stretch corrected, “Duboise.”
            Bubu undeterred, “Johnston and...”
            Stretch filled in, “We understand that it’s hair in the butter time for y’all but just the same we need to pay our respects.”
            Thembi hearing them walked over, “How do you know DC?”
            Bubu clarified, “In the joint. He was stand-up.”
            And Stretch added, “Told us to look him up in the daylight. Gave us this address. Said it was his big sister’s which I be assuming such is you.”
            Imara looked at Thembi who shrugged, turned back to them “Yes, well all right, come on in. I’m Imara.”
            Stretch entered, “Cool tag.”
            Bubu polite, “Please to meet you Iminamara.”
            “Just Imara. Swahili for strength.” Imara completed introductions, “And this is Thembi.”
            Bubu nodded, “You peoples got some names.”
            Thembi helped out, “Thembi means hope in Zimbabwe.”
            “Zimbab who?” Bubu asked.
            Stretch, “We.”
            “Us?” Bubu was confused.
            Thembi clarified, “Zimbabwe . A country in Africa.”
            Bubu commented, “Africa’s some kinda’ big country ain’t it to have another country in it.”
            Thembi said, “Africa is a continent. There are 57 countries in Africa.”
            Bubu almost smiled, “Smart women turn me on no insult intended particularly you being Dion’s main squeeze.”
            Thembi straightened him out, “No. I’m his second cousin.”
            “Makes me no never mind if you two had chemicals between you,” Bubu said and then gave her the six-pack. “Tastes better if you put in the freezer for a breather.”
            Thembi took it, “All right. Would you like one now?”
            “I wouldn’t be minding at all, thank you very much,” Bubu said.
            Thembi detached one and give it to Bubu and took remaining five to the freezer, nudging Imara as they shared  silent awareness of the bizarre company.
            Imara played the hostess despite her discomfort, “Well, please, sit down and...what are your names, again?”
            “Bubu. And this here is my main man, Stretch.”
            Stretch nodded, “Respects,” gave her a box of donuts and sat down.
            “Can I offer you something as...Bubu isn’t it...he has a beer.” Imara asked.
            Bubu toasted and slurped the beer, “Which will do for a megabyte.”
            Imara asked, “And what would you like...Stretch, right?”
            Stretch nodded, “If you have Scotch neat I would mos def have little or no objections. And one of them donuts, particularly the sprinkled job.”
            Imara took the box of donuts to the kitchen area, once again connecting with Thembi as both tried to conceal their almost-hilarious response to the visitors. “I’m afraid no Scotch. How about bourbon?”
            “Kicking won’t get you nowhere lest you being a mule,” Stretch said.
            “Is that a yes? Imara asked.
            Bubu “Uhmm hmmmed.”
            “Well then bourbon coming up,” Imara poured, then taking out donuts and putting them on a plate, assisted by Thembi, giving Stretch the drink and the plate of donuts nearby, which of course, Stretch reached out for the sprinkled job.
            Thembi broke  the uncomfortable silence, “Did you know Dion long?”
            “When you’re doing time a minute’s as long as a year,” Stretch said.
Bubu added, “He was no punk. No rabbit blood in Dion, no sir. I’ll tell you straight up he stood tall although one might think somebody busted for chasing the dragon would take it to the vent but not Dion. He stayed hard as an oak tree.”
            Imara, “Chasing the dragon?”
            Stretch, “Dope-fiend, no insult or harm intended.”  
            “None taken,” Imara said.
            “No harm no foul.” Bubu added.
            Thembi was still ignorant of...”Taking it to the vent?”
            “Suicide. But not him. No, that boy was a writer, a stone-cold writer Dion was. Busier than a one legged man in a butt kickin’ contest,” Stretch clarified.
            Bubu slurping his beer, “Yes indeed, it was kickin’.”
Stretch, “Some cons said his writing was as useless as tits n a boar hog but we chugged their mouth full learning them to not be throwing manure up hill lest it roll back into they face if you get my drift.”
            Imara and Thembi looked at each other, neither one understating Stretch’s rap. Imara asked, “Not exactly. No, we don’t actually get your...your drift.”

​Bubu, “Dion’s writing was so good you could hardly stand hearing it but then you could not do without it so in good times Stretch would out-loud the words.”                   
            Stretch, “I’d read ‘til the wheels fell off.”
            Bubu, “Some of the dudes in our yard would drop a hump just so Dion could write something to their war department.”
            Stretch, “Homeys in our crew would pay Marlboro man dibs so Dion could make up a letter to their boneyard.”
            Bubu, “He wrote one for me to my woman. I learnt it before she’d come visit or she would know that the words weren’t mine. It was not an easy task I will tell you true  blue  as my memory bank is on low deposit if you know what I’m saying. I did not sleep that night. I was mos def tweaked.
            Stretch, “The Lord poured Bubu’s brains with a thimble and somebody shook his hand.”
            Bubu, “I learnt it down did I not?”
            Stretch, “Some people’s memories like trying to throw  wide loop with a short rope, know what I’m saying, ladies?”
            Bubu. “There you go since I learnt it so hard it took root so back off  brother in fack as of since I still got it down I ask present company if anybody in this vicinity want to hear it cause this brother can definitely roll  with Dion’s rap.”
            Imara looking at Thembi, neither understanding, shrugge and nodded with feigned interest, “Yes, we would like to hear anything Dion wrote.”
            Bubu, “He wrote but I laid the groundwork to Dion as the words must apply to what was my woman from her man which is the very utmost that you understand what I am saying.”
            Imara faking comprehension, “Got it.”
            Bubu, “In true times facing the reality of what is and what ain’t, she did not necessarily deserve the last bit of news which rapidly got old because she split with a border brother.”
            Stretch, “A Mexican dude.”
            Bubu, “She didn’t know much or even any better as she was just a duck who’d fall off a dump truck if it was greasy enough.”
            Thembi, “A duck who’d fall...”
            Stretch, “the girl was below the not-all-that-swift pedometer marking.
            Imara, “Dump truck?”
            Stretch, “A weak-faced dude who does not hold up his end.”
Bubu, “She was a woman with too much lackin' in the...what’s the word?”
            Stretch, “Patience.”
            Bubu, “86’d in the patience-department. Angie, her tag for Evangeline, if she coulda just held her breath a few beats more I woulda’ been out before she did some rash trash as I had me wino time left.”
Imara and Thembi look at each other in ignorance.
            Stretch, “Too short of time to even start an almost-conversation.”
            Bubu, “She hit and split on me before they gave me two hundred dollars and bus ducat. Can you believe that?”
            Imara faking understanding, “Well sure, I guess, yes.”
            Bubu, “Okay then you got the lay of the land for what Dion wrote at the time.” Bubu closed his eyes, accessing the memory, then recited as if in grammar school, “Evangeline you are so fine that I will do the time while chilling knowing Evangeline that you are mine keeps me from offing and killing. I’ll just keep buffing...”
            Stretch, “Working out with weights.”
            Bubu, “While eyeing the date...”
            Stretch, “Release exactified.”
            Bubu, “...and huffing and puffing to your sweet gate.” Bubu opened his eyes, almost bowed. “The end. Dion told me ‘sweet gate’, what were the words, Stretch?”
            Stretch, “A double entendre with one meaning.”      
            Bubu, “Zackly. Your brother could put a word together.”
            Imara, “That’s, uhmmm, that’s...Evangeline, she must have been moved by that piece.”
            Bubu, “Yeah, well, she was at the time but when I hit the pavement she already spun out and took whatever jingles I left going south for this dude talking out of the side of his neck. I would not be surprised if he was a tree jumper.”
            Imara, “Tree jumper?”
Stretch, “A steady rapist, no disrespect for Dion’s kin, mind you.”
Imara, “None taken.
Bubu, “But I’ll give you the skinny which is if Bubu ever runs into that smut I got a bone crusher waiting on his ribs.”
            Imara, “Well, Bubu, there is a saying: If a man takes away your woman, the best revenge is to let him keep her.”
            Bubu, “Who said that?”
            Imara, “Just a saying.”
            Bubu, “Ain’t my kinda’ program.”  To Stretch, “The dude who said that is probably on the leg.”
            Stretch, “Either that or a j-cat.”
            Bubu sharing hand gestures, “Or a flip flopper.”
            Stretch with accompanying hand gestures, “Or a high-sliding punk who we told to spread his hustle and rinks....”
            Thembi jumped in, “I know what spread his hustle mean.”
            Bubu, “He was good wood.”
            Thembi wasn’t buying into their memorial of how great Sonny was. “Maybe so but as soon as he got out, what was it, Imara, seventy-two minutes you said, he went straight back to...”
            Imara, “Sometimes I think he may have been better off in prison.”
            Bubu, “Not maybe so because one never knows what’s under the rug since some wanna-be might yoke him up just for a rollie.”
            Imara, “Yoke him up for...”
            Stretch, “Come from behind and stab him for a cigarette. In the slam sometimes the log is so crooked it won’t sit still. Cons seldom come out of the same hole.”
            Bubu, “No ma’am, cannot trust ‘em. Dion was a convict, pure blood, you can be proud of him.”

​Stretch, “Dion was no con.”
            Thembi, “I don’t get the difference.”
            Bubu, “Con is a sleaze.”
            Stretch, “Convict on the other foot is tough as rawhide.”
            Bubu, “Zackly ‘n then some. There are plenty cons wearing knee pads to get a Cadillac bunk. Not your brother. No way.”
            Imara, “Cadillac bunk?”
            Stretch, “Kick ass, no insult intended, to get a single bunk.” Stretch finished his drink, stood, “Well, we’ve got a row to hoe with some people on the other side of the horizon so if you don’t have worries we’ll just be making a move towards relocation. C’mon Bubu, let’s get past the shadows before the dogs start barking.”
            Bubu standing, “On my feets,” and to Imara and Thembi, “Wouldn’t want my road-dog treading solo know what I’m saying?”
            Stretch nods to them, “Our respects.”
            Bubu, “Similar.” He starts to go, stops and turns, “’Scuse me, any chance of toting the remainder of that there six-pack?”
            To which Stretch opposed, “What are you spewing, dude, them’s for the wake.”
            Bubu, “I do not see no one else to be sipping on suds in this scene so I just chewed over the 4-1-1- particularly we be spending good rare green on...”
            Stretch, “I don’t care if syrup goes to a dollar a sop, we leave the brew fore the good people including the donuts. I swear, there is something seldom about you, boy.”
            Bubu nods to Thembi and Imara, “Sorry. No disrespect.”
            Thembi, “None taken.”
            Imara gets the beer and donuts handing it to Bubu, “Actually, as you might say, Bubu, true blue of the matter is we do not drink beer or eat donuts so you may as well take them. I mean it. Please.”
            Bubu tempted but won’t make a move unless Stretch assents.
            Stretch, “I feel like a skunk telling a buzzard he stinks but if you insist.” He nods to Bubu to take them as they walk toward the door.
            Imara, “Thank you for stopping by.”
            Stretch, “Our privilege, ma’am.”
            Thembi, ‘It was very thoughtful of you.”
            Stretch, “Well, Dion’s passing might be of a kinda’ worth when you come right down to it.”
            Imara, “How do you see that?”
            Stretch, “My mamma used to say a dry well teaches us the worth of water.”
            Bubu, “What does that mean, Stretch?”
            Stretch, “I’ll fill in the Q’s as we journey to a place with promise.” At the door he turned, “Condolences to Dion’s kin.”
            Bubu, “Same.”
            Imara, “Thank you.”
            Imara closed the door on their departure. After a few beats assured they are alone and out of hear-shot, Imara screamed, “What was that?”
            Thembi taking the bourbon to the kitchen to make a drink, “I understood every other word. After the blues brothers I need a double.”
            Imara, “Against my better judgment I’ll join you.”
            The Doorbell rang. Once. Then Twice.
            Thembi mixing drinks, “Aren’t you going to get that, Imara?”
            “I’m not ready for the Stretch ‘n Bubu act again.” She looks around, “They did take all the donuts, right?”
            Doorbell rings again.
            Thembi stops mixing drinks and walks to the door, “I can’t stand it,” opening it to Maureen,  a pale Caucasian with an apologetic face carrying a package.
            “Uhmmm, hello.
            Thembi, “Yes?”
            “I’m Maureen Ann Brady.” She extends her hand to shake awkwardly but she has to hold on to the package she is carrying. “Pleased to meet you.”          
            Thembi turns to Imara who walks to the door, “We don’t know each other, so we?”
            “I’m Maureen Ann Brady.”
            “So I heard.”
            “You are Imara Samuels Johnston.”
            “How do you know my name?”
            “It was on the report.”
            “What report?”
            “At the police station, You, you claimed your brother’s body. Johnston, Charles Dion. Dion’s derivation is French. Was your bother French?”
            Imara to Thembi, “Is this woman serious?”
            Maureen, “Also from Dionysus, Greek Zeus. Your brother could have been Greek, too.”
            Imara, “My brother is, was African-American.”
            Thembi, “Derivation might be God.”
            Imara, “Stop, cease, desist. What...who are you and why are you here?”
            Maureen near tears, “I’m Maureen Ann Brady.”
            Imara, “Which has been eminently clear from the moment Thembi opened the door.”
            “But you asked.”
            Thembi, “Excuse me, Miss Brady but...”
            “Mrs. It’s a Mrs.”
            “Mrs. Brady, we are in mourning right now and whatever it is you came about may not be the appropriate time.”
Imara, “Wait a minute. What are you doing checking out a police report for my name? I thought that’s supposed to be confidential.”
            Maureen, “It is very seriously utmost confidential. For certain.”
            Thembi, “This is beginning to feel like a re-run from Saturday Night Live. You’re not Kristin Wiig in make-up, are you?”
            Maureen, “I love that show.”
            Imara, “I am running out of patience, Maureen Ann Brady, so if you don’t come up with a reasonable explanation for your uninvited presence you will be talking to the other side of the door.”
            Maureen is frozen in place.

​Thembi, “Last chance, and it’s not a vowel. Why are you here, Mrs. Brady.”
            “My husband is Thomas Michael Brady.”
            Imara, “Is there a culture gap? What am I missing?”
            Thembi, “What is it about your husband that has to do with us, Maureen?”
            “He...uhmmm...he is...was..the officer that...” turning to Imara with great difficulty, “...the officer that apprehended your brother.”
            Imara is stunned. “Your husband is the cop who killed DC?”
            Maureen near tears, “H was pointing a gun and...”
            Imara, “It was lot loaded.”
            Maureen, “He did not know that. Please!”
            Imara stares at Maureen, shakes her head, walks back into the room, slumps into the receding pillow of the protesting arm-chair, “Did you make those drinks, Thembi?”
            Thembi returns to mixing drinks and brings down another glass, “On the way.” Looking at Maureen who is trying not to tremble, “Come in, Mrs. Brady. I think you can stand one, too.”
            Imara, “Say what?”
            Thembi, “Sit down, Mrs. Brady.”
            Maureen goes to sit but stops, offering a package.
            Thembi, “What is this?”
            Maureen, “It’s a cake.”
            Imara, “Don’t touch it, it might be a bomb.”
            Maureen, “It’s a cake.”
            Thembi takes it, “Thank you.”
            Imara, “Her man killed baby-brother an you’re thanking her for the cake?”
            Maureen, “I...I didn’t...I do not mean disrespect...it’s just that...in my family, when someone dies we have a wake and everyone brings something and the family sits around and remembers the deceased and cries and laughs and gets drunk and...I am sorry if I offended you. I most definitely did not intend to insult you. I hope you forgive me.”
            Thembi, “Sit down, Mrs. Brady. We will have cake with a special drink I invented that has a humbling effect which is desired under the circumstances.” Finished mixing the drinks she cuts the cake. “Take off your coat, Mrs. Brady.”
            Maureen, sitting on the edge, carefully folds her coat and puts it on her lap, “Thank you.”
            Imara rises and takes the drinks, setting them down on a table, taking one for herself. “I cannot believe this. I am drinking with the wife of an Irish cop who killed my brother.”
            Maureen, “Actually his family originated from Wales.”
            Imara, “I’m glad that’s clarified.”
            “Thomas Michael is very specific about that. His people are not Irish. They are Welsh.”
            Thembi puts three plates of cake, forks, napkins on table, taking one for herself.
            Imara, “What are you doing here, lady?
            “Paying my respects.”
            Imara turns to Thembi, “What am I missing?”
            Thembi makes a motion to ease up and turns to Maureen, “Does your husband know you are here?”
            “Thomas Michael Know? Oh no oh no oh no oh my, I am afraid not. None, nil, zero information about my presence here is definitely not within Thomas Michael’s sphere of  knowledge.” She nibbles on the cake, sips drink, likes it, drinks more. “This is a very good drink.”     
            Thembi toasts and drinks, “And you’re a very good judge.”
            Maureen sips delicately, “Bourbon, correct?”
            Thembi, “Uhmmm hmmm.”
            Maureen sips again. “And...uhmmm...yes, oh yes, root beer. Interesting.” Sips again. “But there is something else...I can’t quite identify it.”
            Imara, “Is this some form of contest? Are we being secretly filmed for Ellen?”
            Thembi, “Two out of three ain’t bad.”
            Maureen sips again, “Of course. Got it. Very clever Vanilla extract, right?”
            Thembi, “How id you know? Nailing vanilla extract! Off the wall. Extraordinary!”
            Imara, “Strange.”
            Maureen, “It’ makes Thomas Michael crazy. I can figure out, yes, Imara, the strangest things but I have a great deal of difficulty handling every day affairs. I often forget to water the plants which subsequently die.”
            Imara drinks, laughs derisively, “Who is this woman!”
            Thembi, “Excuse Imara.”       
            Maureen, “No, that’s very much all right. I enjoy when people laugh at what I say even if sometimes or many times I do not get it.”
            Imara, “You enjoy people laughing at you?”
            “I see it another way.”
            “Such as?”
            “Well it’s...my father, he was often on the edge, very dark and...I digress...I mean, well...it’s difficult to be angry at someone when you are laughing. Isn’t that so?”
            Thembi, “The woman’s got a point.”
            Imara, “I’ll drink to that, whatever that is.” Drinks. “God, this is terrible.”
            Maureen, “I do not want to sound contrary but I do not agree. I find this a very good drink.” She downs the drink.
            Imara and Thembi look at each other, at Maureen, and down their drinks.
            During the ensuing they each get drunk but NOT in a cliché slurring words sloppiness. Just an easing of life’s burden drunk.
            Imara staring at Maureen who feels the pressure, “Yes?”
            Imara, “Just trying to figure out...were you born on this planet?”
            “Thomas Michael, my husband, says I must come from another galaxy.”
            Thembi goes to the kitchen with the cake, “Shall I mix another batch, ladies?”
            Maureen, “Yes, thank you, that would be splendid.”
            Imara, “Splendid.” Eating some cake, “This isn’t bad. I haven’t eaten all day.”
            Thembi mixing drinks and nibbling on cake, “Delicious.”
            Maureen eating cake carefully, “Yes the cake is from Saperstein’s bakery. The Jews make very good cake.”
            Thembi, “They’re also good with money.”

​Imara, “Not all of them. Mrs. Friedman down the block, her husband went broke and they fight a lot.”
            Maureen, “My dentist is Jewish.”
            Thembi bringing drinks for each. “My G-Y-N is Jewish.”
            Imara, “What is this, Jewish inventory week?”
            Maureen, “I don’t mind waiting in the dentist’s office. I catch up on my reading.”
            Thembi, “What are you reading now?
            Maureen drinks, “People magazine. Nothing serious. Just an every six month cleansing. I like having clean teeth, don’t you? He is a very good Jewish dentist.”
            Imara, “Were you raised by wolves?”
            Maureen, “I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t insult you. Are you Jewish?”
            Imara breaks up laughing which is catching as Maureen laughs and Thembi get caught up, until finally the laughter subsides, they each sip, quiet in the room...until...
            Maureen, under the influence of Thembi’s concoctions, “I never told anybody why I stopped going to confession.”
            Imara, “Told anybody what?”
            “I think I’m a little looser than usual and tempted to say something that should not be said but I am going to say it anyhow because you, Imara, and you Thembi, are the first women I feel obliged to share something, if you don’t mind.”
            Thembi, “Share on sister.”
            Maureen looks at Imara for permission who nods, “What the hell, Maureen, roll it.”
            “Father Brannigan, he touched me in places and did things to a young girl that were not appropriate. Most definite not.”
            Imara, “How old were you?”
            “I feel so ashamed.”
            Thembi, “No reason to be ashamed. It is Father what’s his name who should...”
            “Twelve. I did not even have my period yet. I have not been able to return to confession since. Thomas Michael does not know why. I choose not to tell him. In fact you two are the first persons I have told. Period.”
            Imara, “Finally they’re getting busted. Did you see the move, ‘Spotlight?’ It’s long time due for people to nail those child molesters and I don’t care if they’re hiding behind a collar they should be cowering behind bars. Maureen girl, I will definitely drink to busting Father what’s his name.” She offers a toast to which they each raise their glasses and drink.
            Maureen, “This drink is very very good, yes.”
            Imara, “All right, Maureen, time to get down. Tell us straight out. Why are you here?”
            “Well I, you see, not me, well, yes, me, everyone actually thinks that policemen shoot people all the time but most of them never even fire a gun except at target practice.”         
            Imara, “Where you been, girl? Sometimes our brothers are the targets they be practicing on.”
            Maureen, “Thomas Michael was thinking of quitting the force but already has sixteen years and needs another four for his pension.”
            Imara. “Stop. Cease and desist. Maureen Brady will tell us exactly why you are here, in my home or you will leave my home.”
            Thembi, “That’s a little hard, Sissy.”
            Imara turns to Maureen, giving no respite. “Why?”
            “Thomas Michael, my husband...”
            Imara to Thembi, “I may have to kill this woman before...”
            Thembi to Maureen, “We know he is your husband, Maureen, but you are not answering Imara’s question and knowing Imara, you are twenty seconds away from exiting our domain.”
            Maureen drinks, then, “Our religion will not permit a divorce even though Thomas Michael hasn’t touched me in over a year but he is my husband and if he does something, anything, as his wife under the law and the church as his eternal wife, I am involved.”
            Imara, “Are you telling us that you are involved in your husband’s shooting my brother?”
            “It was in the line of duty and after investigation they determined it was an appropriate response.”
            “Appropriate? DC’s appropriately dead, is that why you’re saying?”
            “Your brother is dead and that is a terrible thing. Terrible.”
            Imara stands, drinks effecting her as she wobbles to the door an opens it. “Tell us the reason you came here or I will close the door behind you.”
            Maureen is frozen.
            Thembi in an empathic tone, “ Maureen, what do you want from us?”
            Maureen quietly, “To...to forgive Thomas Michael.”
            Imara slams the door  shut. “Forgive! Have you lost your mind? I am not nor shall I ever be into forgiving your white cop of a husband for killing my black civilian brother.” Imara storms to the kitchen, gets bourbon bottle, walks to each of them, splashes bourbon into their glasses. Long silence as they each drink. Then...
            Maureen, “We never had any children. In truth, Thomas, he did not try all that often actually.” They drink in silence. “Did you know that every ten seconds someplace on God’s earth there is a woman giving birth.”
            Imara, “We oughta’ find that woman and stop her.”
            Thembi breaks up laughing. Imara joins her. Maureen smiles. They drink.
            Maureen, “Can I tell you a secret?”
            Imara, “As long as it has nothing to do with forgiving your cop husband.”
            “I...I sometimes have a fantasy of having an affair with John Goodman.”
            “John Goodman. The actor? He is seriously fat.”
            “Yes, isn’t he.”
            “I think I’m caught in a time warp from another dimension.”
            “I never told anyone about John Goodman before.”
            “Smart move.”
            “Want to know another secret?”
            “I don’t know if I an handle it.”
            Thembi, “Go ahead, Maureen, get down girl.”
            “I like to read. Oh this is awful...”
            Imara, “What is awful about reading or am I too drunk to understand?”

“The nature of what I read.”
            “Were you a switched baby?”
            Thembi, “What nature, Maureen?”
            “When Thomas Michael is...well sometimes he works day and night. Actually in truth we are talking truth now right, well sometimes he may not really be on duty but we both  make like he is and when I am left alone all of those lonely nights well, I...I like to read books are stories that are, well, stimulating if you get my drift.”
            Thembi, “Ahh, sexy, salacious stuff.”
            “Yes, I do believe that’s an accurate description, yes.”
            Imara, delightfully drunk, wobbles over to the open carton, takes out a loose-leaf book and scans. “I hear the call, Sonny...a tribute..hey, hey, hey check this out. You will get off on this, Maureen Brady.”
            Thembi, “Maybe now’s not the time to read DC’s writing, Imara.”
            “What better ways to praise him.” Scanning pages, then stops, smiles, “Get this.” Reading, “The clitoris of the spider monkey is twice the size of the mane monkey’s penis scientists surmise.”
            Maureen, “Is that true?”
            Thembi, “DC was a mess but he spoke the truth.”
            Imara, “Except about his habit.”
            Maureen still dealing with...”Oh my God, the clitoris is twice the size of the monkey’s penis. One would think...can you read some more? Please.”
            Thembi, “She can but I don’t know if she should.”
            Imara, “Stop shoulding all over me, Thembi. What better way to honor DC than to read his work,” giggling sweet drunk, “Scandalous as it may be.”
            Thembi, “But out loud to a stranger?”
            Imara, “Maureen is strange but she gave up being stranger with her personal reveals.”
            Maureen, “Thank you.”
            Thembi, “You got it. Read on, Sister.”
            Imara reading, “The human female’s vagina can easier stretch than clench, which for smaller men makes a boy out of a mensch.”
            Maureen, “A boy out of what? A mensk? What is a mensk? “
            Imara, “Not mensk, mensch. That’s a Jewish word for a man. A mensch to the Jews is a real man.”
            Maureen, “Is your bother Jewish?”
            Imara and Thembi break up laughing. Imara tosses loose leaf binder to Thembi. “I can’t read...read? I can hardly see. Your turns Thembi.”
            “I’m in not much better shape. I don’t know if I can read either.”
            Maureen, “Please I would like to hear more. He is a very good writer. Please?”
            Thembi shrugs, does her best to see as she scans pages, then stops and reads. “A woman may not orgasm until Saturday a week while a man takes seconds to reach his peak. In the old days men would fuck to conquer beauty but nowadays to the woman he owes a duty.”
            Maureen, “Tell that to Thomas Michael. He is finished before I ever get started. Would your read some more, please?”
            Thembi, “My eyes are high and not into focusing right now. Here, Maureen, you read.”
            Maureen accepts the binder, asks Imara, “Is it all right with you if I read your brother’s brilliant writing?”
            Imara, “I gave up any concept of all right a long time ago. Read on, Maureen Brady.”
            With difficulty, as she, too, is delightfully drunk, she digs for glasses from her nearby purse, puts them on, smiles to each as if she is about to give a formal, public recitation, and reads. “Up, down, sideways, continuously, men must address the woman sinuously. They must kiss and tongue and taste and touch to make her juices flow and such...” Maureen stops reading.  “Thomas Michael is the only man I ever had sex. With. The only time I ever had orgasms...oh God am I saying this. The only time is when I am alone with the books I told you about.”
            Thembi, “And I’ll bet you thought of John Goodman, then, didn’t you girl-friend?”
            Maureen, “Yes. Is that wrong? I mean sinfully wrong? Will I have to pay, you know, atone? I don’t know how many Hail Mary’s, actually the priest is the one who decides but I can’t quite go to...I’m sure you understand so I’ll just have to decide myself, yes,  okay, got it. Twenty-seven Hail Mary’s will do the trick. Does that sound reasonable?”
            Imara, “Whatever gets you off is worth the price.”
            They are each quiet in their own gently high world, until...
            Maureen, “Your brother is a truly gifted writer.”
            Imara, “Was.”
            Maureen, “Was?”
            “Was a gifted writer. No longer is.”
            “Was. I am so sorry about his, your loss.”
            “Yes, Maureen, we are each and every one of our sorry selves sorry.”
            Another silence, each dealing with DC’s departure.
            Maureen, “Thomas Michael is planning to move to another apartment. Without me.”
            Imara, “Our men leave us.”
            Thembi, “Our men die.”
            Imara, “And we women go on.” 

Rick Edelstein was born and ill-bred on the streets of the Bronx. His initial writing was stage plays off-Broadway in NYC. When he moved to the golden marshmallow (Hollywood) he cut his teeth writing and directing multi-TV episodes of “Starsky & Hutch,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Chicago,” “Alfred Hitchcock,” et al. He also wrote screenplays, including one with Richard Pryor, “The M’Butu Affair” and a book for a London musical, “Fernando’s Folly.” His latest evolution has been prose with many published short stories and novellas, including, “Bodega,” “Manchester Arms,” “America Speaks,” “Women Go on,” “This is Only Dangerous,” “Aggressive Ignorance,” “Buy the Noise,” and “The Morning After the Night.” He writes every day as he is imbued with the Judeo-Christian ethic, “A man has to earn his day.” Writing atones.

      THIS IS ONLY DANGEROUS by Rick Edelstein 

                                       PART II 

​                David felt stoned, high, as if watching himself doing something that was not his nature, out of balance, following a woman many years older than him into her home, not having an inclination as to why he was there and wondering if he, indeed, was in a dream or a disguised transference into another realm like those bad sci-fi reruns on TV.
             Olivia busied herself at the stove working in ease and comfort the way she would if Davíd was a long-time lover and she was preparing his favorite meal.
             David had a confused half-smile on his handsome craggy face looking at the huge room which was a combination living-room-kitchen-den-artist’s loft...it reminded him of those wild gardens looking as if nature just tumbled but somehow the eclectic jumble fit, well not exactly fit but the result was pleasing as he walked about, touching a thick fabric from North Africa disguised as a lampshade, a convoluted piece of aged wood which upon closer inspection had grown into an old face. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman’s face and it did not really matter as he was moved by the rough hewn ragged power. He was startled by a canvas on an easel, an acrylic painting of bright orange, reds, and blues abstracted and yet very specifically a woman’s vagina, or was it the inside of a pear, he wasn’t sure but it was...it was lush.
             There was a bookcase, actually not so much a bookcase but shelves stuck on mason bricks groaning against the weight of many books, some in English, Spanish, and one seemingly Chinese. He reached for the musty beautiful fading burgundy binding which had Chinese lettering, opening it revealing yellowed pages with the strong delicacy of Chinese calligraphy.
            Olivia came to him carrying two steaming cups of Turkish coffee, giving him his cup. “Ah, you discovered my favorite book.”
             “You read Chinese?” he asked.
             “No.” She sat on a magnificently aged rocking chair, held her cup of coffee, blowing the visible steam to cool, sipping through a cube of sugar stuck between her teeth.
               “Mi Papi, mi abuelo taught me this sugar cube.” She sipped loudly enjoying the sound of her slurp.
                David couldn’t stop grinning, almost surrendered to being here without question. Almost. He sipped, grimaced, and she laughed noticing, “Too strong, Fixer?”
                “No, it’s perfect, just takes some getting used to, as do you, and what the hell am I doing here?”
                  She ignored the question, crossed her legs revealing a flash of her upper inner thighs which David did not miss wondering whether that corner of revealed dark was her pubic hair or black underwear. Olivia did not miss Davíd’s glimmer as he sat down on a nearby chair not wanting to reveal his bulge and wondering what the hell am I doing getting a hard-on over a woman old enough to be...his erection wouldn’t permit him to end the sentence.
                   Olivia laughed as if she read his thoughts and his bulge. “Tomorrow I would like you to drive me to a particular spot by the ocean where the waves are very dramatic. I like the way you drive.”
                  David stared at her appreciating the beautiful mouth that had too-red lipstick curving from thick to thin in such a graceful line that he lost himself for a moment. Seconds later as if a recalcitrant echo reverberated, he heard her suggestion of tomorrow or was it a soft demand? He was in a dream, he was sure, yet liking it and ambivalently trying to ground himself in reality. He started to talk but the words wouldn’t come. He sipped and made less of an effort as his voice now sounded quiet and rich as the Turkish coffee, surprising him upon hearing an unfamiliar tone easing from his larynx.
                    “What do you do? Who are you? I should do what, drive you? Tomorrow? I won’t be here tomorrow. The Ocean? Why? Why in blessed hell am I here?”
                    “Blessed hell. Oxymoron.” She mumbled as if her voice was dripping in warm honey. She uncrossed her legs slowly. This time he was sure it was a thick patch of black pubic hair with a surprising slash of pink leaping out as she stood, walked to him in a slow rocking motion, leaned over and adjusted a  loose spike of hair sticking out in the back.
                    “That’s too much of a question too early, Davíd, Davíd, a good name, it has fabric in my mouth. Come my Davíd. Vamanos cariño.” She took his hand and he allowed her to lead in confused obeisance.
                   Entering a small dark room whose walls were casually draped with purple and magenta flowing pieces of graceful silk she gave him matches and disappeared into an adjacent bathroom.
                   David emitted the family tree sigh trying to find the rhythm to normal breathing which his body forgot as he walked around obediently lighting candles. Then he heard the sound, a woman singing in Spanish, sounds, ayyy trilling of ancient ranchera yearnings.
                  ​The door opened and she came out humming in a flowing garment that revealed and hid her body as she barefooted towards him holding a large cloth of black silk in each hand. Olivia gave him one, turned her back and helped him tie it as a blindfold around her eyes. She, feeling for him, used the other and blindfolded him. She took his hands and placed his finger on her lips. He traced the graceful shape and then pressed down on her thick underlip, surprised as she gently sucked his two fingers into her mouth. Simultaneously she slowly undid his belt and  unzipped his trousers pulling gently on his shorts as they fell to his ankles. She turned her back to him, lifting her billowing gown, then reaching back with one hand  on his now bare ass, pulled him to her. She felt his erection snuggle against her thighs and buttocks and moaned, “Háblame dulcemente muñeco, dime algo dulce, muñeco.”

             ​He reached his hands around, under her gown up to burgeoning breasts, softly pinching, caressing her huge nipples. His breath was reaching for itself in tremulous gasps.
            “This is crazy,” he said as sweetly as if it wasn’t.
            She moaned to his lowering hand gently working through her mass of pubic hair slightly glancing back and forth on her substantial clitoris.
            “No, mi hombre, the world is crazy. This is only dangerous.”
 
            Ever since the blond kid with glasses, David’s slumber evoked the cliché sleeping the sleep of the dead. It wasn’t rest. The nightmarish visitations of the glasses splintering had played out and eventually his sleep was devoid of life. A chilling oblivion retained a grave weight on his awakening. David accepting this, almost welcomed the unspoken burden as a form of mea culpa. But now, now in the dawn time, instead of the overcast mass usually sensed within, now without totally awakening but yet in that hair’s breath of a moment between sleep and consciousness, in the absence of guilt, David experienced the texture of delectable relief, of a smile on the inside of his being, of an ease in breathing that was foreign to his mortality. He relished in the rare moment of a...what...a trance, a vision, a sweet hallucination of a feminine hand gently rubbing his head. He softly resisted awakening, circumventing awareness, choosing to remain in that no-place of a safe place where reality and fantasy dissolve their differences, someone was singing to him. She was humming, tenderly wording a lullabye, “Duerme, duerme, mi  cariño, sueña con los angelitos ...duerme, duerme mi amorcito, sueña conmigo al ladito.” David submerged into a profound slumber losing the thread of consciousness breathing into a safe haven where he could disarm.
            Later, much later David is awake. Not wanting to open his eyes because he knows. He knows he is in her home. He knows the sex was transcendent and he also knows the overwhelming reluctance to face looking at a woman many years older and pounds heavier as aromas invade his nostrils with a pleasing enticement.
            Olivia, dressed in a sinuous flowing of burgundy and amber, previously braided hair now open and fanning her striking Mayan structured face. She is humming her recipe as the hands of a woman used to working coincide with her verbal caresses. “A cup of uncooked arborio, a half cup of water, un poquito leche con dulce, cinnamon...a person needs a taste of sweet in the morning to greet the day, don’t you think, Fixer?”
            He was surprised that she knew he was awake as he lay there too quietly breathing unwilling to embrace or reject the demanding reality. He could only clear his throat and open his eyes. Slowly.
            She continued working in the kitchen area with a grace as if she was dancing en la Plaza de almos. “Raisins, chocolate blanco, and corn husks...and then mi Davíd, the crowning perfection that will endear you to me for the rest of your life, Salsa de Chocolate...with a little fresh mint and powdered sugar as a subtle exclamation point.”
            ‘Subtle exclamation point’ was not a phrase he expected from her. He looked up, head tilted like a questioning dog only to see her spin and walk towards him with a wooden spoon dripping with some thick concoction.
            “Taste, muñeco.”
              He smiled, shook his head as an accented comment to a situation beyond his control—and he was definitely used to control—licked the spoon in mute obedience, very lightly. He was startled by the deliciousness of it all, laughed, opened his mouth for more and the cooperation of her extending the spoon, joining his laughter, touching his face tenderly as he cleaned it of the chocolate.
              “Now,” she said, “We can start the day, guapo.”
               He actually smiled in relief. No talk of last night. No mock assurances or cover or retreat or evaluation or facing reality or assessing the situation or anything but dealing with the exigencies of the day according to the book of Olivia.
                “There is a particular place, a spot, a position, an extraordinary living pleasure at the ocean we must go. I like the way you drive, hombre.”
                 And for a reason unnecessary to investigate, although he was curious about a ‘living pleasure at the ocean,’ David went. Perhaps it was the Salsa de Chocolate.
 
                Driving towards the ocean David felt as if he took a drug but wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad trip. His linear mind couldn’t compute the logic of his involvement in this journey. With a woman who...he glanced at her and her head swiveled to meet his eyes as if he had said something. Which he did not. He turned back toward the road. Driving.
                 “Your thinking is too loud, Fixer.”
                 Silence.
                 “You better talk before you implode.”
                 David was surprised she knew the word implode, and then immediately judged himself for a bigoted assumption. He did not turn towards her but rather focused on the drive toward the ocean. As if it was his ministry of redemption to arrive at the water. Redemption, he questioned? What do I have to be ‘redempted’ about?
                 “Is it my age or size,” she asked?
                  He was tempted to say the polite thing, the words that would assuage but they wouldn’t come. He wondered if he could be institutionalized as a man out of control in this moment because he fantasized, in turning the narrow lanes going down a steep grade, not turning but in an uncontrolled insane moment to hurtle off the edge into the deep abyss.
                Olivia got it on some level because she reached over and tugged the steering wheel towards the side of the road. David yelled, hit the brakes as the car came to a dusty stop on the dirt shoulder. He looked at her violently, “Are you crazy?”
                  “No, hombre, tu eres loco ahora!”
                   “You could have killed me!”
                  “And you could have killed us. Que pasa, Davíd?”
                   He was catching his breath as he got out of the car, stomped around, kicked the dirty, yelled, “I don’t know what the fuck I am doing here, with you, now!”
                 “Aqui ahora conmigo o en tu vida?”

                 He was in a rage without an object, without an obvious enemy, just on that perennial edge that lay within him ready for...he stopped...knelt down...picked up a handful of dirt. Lost.
              Olivia came next to him, kneeling, picking up a handful of dirt.
              They looked at each other. He exhaled loudly, shook his head, resigned to the madness. She laughed and threw the dirt at him. He responded and threw his dirt in her face. And like two adults with the kids turned loose they played in the dirt until they were breathless leaning against the car, not understanding what happened.
               Olivia still wanted a personal answer. “Verdad, muñeco, una vez mas. Is it my age or my size? Y por favor, do not go into that loud silence that makes me crazy porque after all I am yet still a woman with sensitivities...” and balancing that vulnerability...”...y muchos cuervos which many men like and lust after. Háblame, Davíd!”
                 He sighed. Almost smiled, looked at her, and then looked off into the horizon of verdant hues of foliage, rolling hills in the distance that looked like a woman’s body. Hers.
                 “No. Yes. Not what you think. Once again, you, me, my life, driving this rickety car to the ocean which means nothing to me...once again validating that I continue to be out of step.” Olivia reached out to adjust that loose lock of hair in the back that refused to stay put as David just stared at her as if she was a stranger. “I don’t know what I’m doing with you.”
                    “Out of step with what, hombre?”
                    He stood up and moved back and forth as if the panther within demanded space. “Everything. My age, profession, ex-profession, colleagues, ex-colleagues, perps, skanks, the fucking world. Out of step with them, it, all, I feel like I’m in a foreign movie without sub-titles.”
                    She was silent, sitting in the dirt against the dented door, watching him pace, stop, kneel, stand, pick up a rock, throw it, sit down again leaning against the car staring straight ahead, avoiding her eyes. Actually she liked his angst. It had the energy of a bubbling volcano in contrast to so many Ameraqiches who are too controlled, too cool, too together, too neat, too too.
                   Sitting in the dirt, leaning against the car, a restless quiet was broken by a man, dirty sneakers, worn army fatigues and a face that hasn’t seen soap in a week, walking on the road, stopping, seeing them, reaching into his pocket, withdrawing a small gun.
                    Yes, the cliché resonated as time and people froze.
                   “I want the keys to your car.”
                    David started to get up but the gun and the voice said, “Don’t get up. Just the keys.”
                     “They’re in the ignition.”
                     “And your wallet.”
                      David reached into his pocked and gave him the wallet.
                      Pointing to Olivia’s neck, “And that necklace.”
                      Olivia’s hand instinctually reached for Papi’s protection, whispered a fearful, fervent, “No.”
                      David, “Do what he says. Give him the necklace.”
                      Olivia was unmoving in the impossibility. “No!”
                      “No?” Aiming the gun at her.
                      “El es de mi Papi! No!”
                       “Give me that necklace unless you want to die, bitch!” He reached down to tear it off her neck.
                       David lightning-shifted into the cornered cop who refused to stay cornered, slapping upward, knocking the gun out of the perp’s hand and then kicking him in the balls. The man fell down cursing, groaning, crawling toward the gun laying in the dirt a few feet away. By now David was on his feet kicking him again, and then again, and sat on him and started punching him unceasingly in the face as the cause of all his pain until Olivia’s, “Basta! Basta! You are killing him.                                  Enough, Davíd, basta!”
                       She pulled him off the man who was almost unconscious and bleeding profusely from the mouth and nose. David standing, breathing hard, the feral animal not yet caged looked at Olivia as if she was an alien until he heard her assertive soothing tones, “Tranquilo, muñeco, tranquilo.” He looked down at the wounded man who was doubled over in moaning pain. David nodded in cognition that the skank was neutralized. Picked up the fallen gun. Removed the bullets and threw them in one direction and the gun in another over the edge of the high road as far away as possible into the cavernous thick brush. He picked up his wallet, turned, grunted as he kicked the man in the ribs one more time, walked and opened the door to the car. They both got in. He drove away leaving the groaning man with dirty sneakers writhing on the ground.
                    Neither said a word as David drove...his singular focus was on driving as if riding on the road of the energy of this strange almost exhilarating battle for this momentary warrior, Olivia understood and in her way loved him for it.
 
                 Thirty minutes later, sitting at an outdoor café, large paper covering the rough tables, a bowl of coloring crayons, salt, pepper, napkins as each of them doodled with different colors on the paper and in between, drinking from a pitcher of Sangria, a declared silence was finally broken as Olivia wiped a red Sangria’d stain off his cheek. She felt it was now a safe place to talk about it. “First you give him your wallet and tell me to give my necklace...”
                “The gun was loaded. Your life is worth more than my money or your necklace.”
                “...and then you do a Zapata on his ass like fierce lightning. What was that?”
                 “When he called you bitch.”
                  “I have been called worse.”
                  “Not in front of me.”
                   “Oh?”
                   “No one insults my woman.”
                   “Acaso soy tu mujer, ahora, muñeco?”
                   Downing the Sangria, emptying the pitcher, “We need a refill.”
                   “We’ll get drunk, mi hombre.”
                    “Know of a better time?
                    “Ahora es perfecto, querida.”

                   ​They never did get to the ocean as they Sangria’d the time away on a small table under an umbrella shading them from the afternoon sun. Perhaps it was the Sangria or the drama/trauma that eased David’s dark rage, for the first time there was an effortless peace within him and with Olivia. She needed words, something to strengthen the web of their connection.
                   “Do you have children?” she quietly asked.
                    “No. Just a brother, sister, four aunts, two uncles, and thirteen cousins.”
                     “Large family, good.”
                     “Large family, not so good.”
                     “Why?”
                     “Differences...”
                     “Family’s always have differences. That makes it fun.”
                     “Not for me. I divorced them along with my ex-wife.”
                      “You don’t miss your cousins, brother, sister, uncles?”
                       “No.”
                       “What do you miss, hombre?”
                       “Who says I’m missing anything?”
                        “We all have a missing inside. That’s God’s devious plan.”
                        “And that God is a maniac. Look at this world. Yeah, the only thing I’m missing is belief.”
                        “In what or who?”
                        “Exactly.”
                       “I don’t believe you.”
                       “Have some more Sangria.”
                       As he poured, and they were slightly drunk, she sipped some more,                              “You will discover what you have been missing when you surrender.”
                        He drank some more. “Surrender? Surrender to who, what, where?”
                        “Surrender to...”
                         An attractive woman, considerably younger than Olivia, walking on the street with a shopping bag from Neiman Marcus stopped in front of the table and in a faux delighted voice, “David, how nice to see you. Again. After all this time.”
                       He looked up. Shaded his eyes to recognize someone he cared not to recognize. He stood, “Hi.”
                      “Hi? Not hello Rebecca? Good to see you, Rebecca?”
                       “How are you, Rebecca?”
                       “Do you really want to know or is that just a rhetorical meaningless greeting?”
                       “Rhetorical.”
                       Glancing down at Olivia with an attitude that could curdle milk, “Well I assume you’re not going to introduce me, you son of a bitch.”
                       “Hey, I don’t know what side of the bed you got out of today but I...”
                        “No, you wouldn’t know what side of the bed because you left my bed before dawn and somehow you didn’t call me after you said you would or shouldn’t I believe anything a man says in bed? Or don’t you remember?”
                        “No, I don’t remember, so...Rebecca, nice seeing you and yes, that is just another rhetorical way of saying goodbye. Rebecca.”
                        “Here’s my way of saying goodbye you misogynist pig!” She slapped him. Hard.
                       Olivia stood up very quickly and before she could depart Olivia put her face in Rebecca’s carefully made up countenance.  “No one can hit my man except me, bitch!”
                       “Your man? You’re old enough to be his mother.”
                       “Nadie me cachetea a mi gabacho, al menos que sea yo, puta!” Olivia ended her sentence with a strong slap across Rebecca’s lip-glossed mouth.                                       Rebecca was shocked, looked around in panic, then ran off being trailed by Olivia’s Spanish curses.
                       Olivia stood there, tears of rage rolling down her sculpted cheeks, muttering, “Old enough to be his mother...puta de madre!” David reached out and gently led her back to the table, to sit. She shrugged off his arm angrily reusing to sit. She stared at him in icy fury, “Is that how you are with me, you motherfucker!”
                       “Hey...come on, baby, don’t buy into a woman whose only cultural life is based on shopping at high end...”
                        “But you with her. That puta!”
                         “I was with a lot of women in my life, not all good, obviously.”
                         “And me, cabrón, am I not all good?”
                          He took her hand and led her to her seat. “You are different than any woman I have ever been with.”
                        “Is that good or bad?”
                         “Good. Very good.”
                         She nodded and sat.
                         Silence a few beats. Then, “What did you say to her in Spanish?”
                          “No one slaps my gringo man around unless it’s me, bitch!”
                          He nodded, smiled, sipped some more, “Fair enough.”

                       ​“Fair enough.”
                       Drinking Sangria, both close to happy drunks. David smiled, shook his had to the gods. “Two knock-downs in one day. Pretty good.”
                        “I didn’t knock her down like you did that pinche cabrón.”
                        “Oh she’s knocked down, believe me.”
                        They laughed, drank some more. Long hazy silence. Almost comfortable. For David but not Olivia who still needed words when she non-sequitured with emotions threatening to overload. “I will not move to Dallas!”
                         David leaned back wondering whether this threatened rage was an overload from the recent scene or a new storm brewing. “You will not move to Dallas. Uh...where’d that come from. What’s boiling now?”
                        “My daughter lives there.”
                        “Ah, got it. You have a daughter who for some reason you don’t want to live near.”
                        “I love my daughter. She loves me. At least I think she does. But no, not Dallas. There are certain things, even for love, a woman cannot abide.”
                         “I don’t know if it’s the Sangria, you, or me but I don’t have a clue.”
                          “They want to ban people, people who own their own houses and live in them from painting colors of their choice.” Olivia reached for some of the crayons as if they were hot pokers and rowdily scrambled colors over the tabled paper as they were her declaration of freedom from invisible chains. She shouted,                          “The Ameraquiches call it ‘garish colors, crudely showy, excessively bright.’” She glared at David. “It is the skin of you gringos that is crudely excessively bright. We Mexicanos paint our houses in happy colors, not those brick boring boxes they call homes. I will not move to Dallas.”
                        David took her hand, stopping her madly scribbling with the crayons, “Hey...you are not old enough to be my mother, but you are young enough to be my lover.”
                     She stopped. Looked at him to determine if he was telling her the truth or just another Ameraquiche. He got the source of her anger. He nodded. She nodded as if a pact has been reached. He put the glass of sangria in her hand, took his and toasted. “To multi-colored houses.”
                     She smiled, clinked her glass, spilling a little, “Salud, cabrón!”
                     He sipped, wanting to ease into personal with no charge. “Do you have any other kids or is it just your Dallas daughter living in a boring box?”
                     “Yes, all together, two daughters and one son. Two different fathers with the same reason for disappearing.”
                      “Which is?”
                     “A strong, smart woman is too threatening to un hombre Mexicano.”
                     “And some gringos, too.”
                     “Do I threaten you, Davíd?”
                     “No, but...”
                     “But what!” she hurled as if a hot spear to ward him off.
                      “Easy, baby...I’m not the enemy.”
                      “But what?”
                      “You don’t threaten me but...you surprise me and I’m not all that comfortable with surprises.”
                       “Surprise is good. Keeps you from getting dusty.”
He laughed, toasted. “Your kids?”
                      “One daughter who won’t speak to me but she is in Africa working in AIDS clinics so I am proud of her.”
                     “And the others?”
                     “Ahh, Maricel is still on her journey. She was a waitress, then cleaned rich people’s houses, then became a writer, and now she is first Latina on the masthead—she taught me that—as associate editor of a major magazine in Dallas. And she is so far gay.”
                    “So far?”
                     “Her journey is not yet ended.”
                     “You have a problem with gay people.”
                    “No, gay people are fine. They are very clean, neat and like to have a good time. No problem with gay people. Just with my daughter. Quiero una nieta. I want a grand grand-daughter whom I can teach the ways of Spirit and the world.”
                    “Sounds like a contradiction.”
                    “Of course. That is exactly why she needs her abuela to teach how to walk the treacherous path.”
                    “I won’t even ask about that. Your son?”
                    She smashed the crayons into bits of pieces, looking up and talking to the clouds, “Como es que puedes ser amoroso y tan cruel.” She turned and looked at David with more energy than he liked. “How can God be so loving and be so mean!”
                   David was silent in the face of her raging pain.
                   Then she spoke. “He was dealing drugs. Now he is in jail.” She swept the crumbs of the crayons off the table and stared into the distance seeking surcease from the pain.
                  David quietly asked, “Do you see him?”
                 “In jail?”
                  “Yes.”
                  “The jail is two thousand five hundred miles away.” She sighed, wiped a tear forming in her beautiful dark almond shaped eyes. “I send him tortillas.” The tears flowed down her cheek as David reached over and put the palm of his hand on her high cheek boned Mayan face. Olivia leaned her head against his strong calloused hand in appreciation, expecting him to move his hand away momentarily but David kept it there. She put her hand on his, pushing it gently against her cheek as she sobbed quietly.
                  “He was my first born. A man-child. The pride of what my boy, my man would become. Pride goeth before ...something, right Fixer?” With his other hand David wiped away her falling tears.
                 “You are a good man.” She sat up, put his hand gently down from her face, breathed  deeply, laughed a guttural sound of cleansing. “I will be all right.”
                “You are all right.”
                 “Claro. Estoy bien.”
                 They drank some more Sangria.  Quiet. Then David uttered, “We never got to your ocean.”
                  “The ocean is not going away.”

​                Just then two kids came running down the street tossing a ball and one hit the blond kid in the face, knocking off his glasses. He stopped, picked them up, put them on and they disappeared into a nearby alley, laughing and yelling.
               The kid with the glasses enforced an obligatory flash of the memory David wanted to bury. Unsuccessfully.
                Olivia felt his obvious shift in mood. Looked at him. He wouldn’t look at her. Closed his eyes. Breathed deeply, let out a disgusted sigh, still refusing to look at her.
               “What?” she asked quietly and yet insisting on a reply.
David was too quiet.
               As if she was caressing him with her voice. “You are living a nightmare during the day. We have come too far, Davíd. You must tell me.”
               He stood up, knocking a half glass of Sangria onto the table, looked at the spilling liquid as if it was strange matter. Olivia walked into the restaurant and returned with napkins, cleaning the table. David was standing facing away.
                “It is all right.”
                “Don’t placate me!” It was his turn to rage.
                “I meant the glass, hombre, the Sangria, all cleaned up. It is all right. I am not placating which I think means trying to ease your rage which no one can do but you although I am not encouraging you to knock over any more glasses but it is all right now.”
                 He turned and looked at her. His anxiety was subsiding.
                 “I know about the animal inside of you, my Davíd, the craziness, the pain, because I, too, have it although we share different sources, it is all right with me. Entiendes, cariño?”
                  He looked at her unsure as to whether he could believe her.
                  “Verdad, coño. Today’s men are so sensitive that they can cry. Me, I want a man to hold me when I cry like when you held my face, wiped away my tears. You, my Fixer, are a man, and yes, I even love the wild beast that knocked that guy down with the gun. Digame, muñeco, tell me your story.” She extended her hand, he took it as it led him to sit next to her. Softly she said as if caressing him, “Háblame, muñeco.”
                  David sitting, facing away, talked, almost to himself. “He wouldn’t stop. Fifteen year old, freckles, glasses, his gun...at me...no matter...he wouldn’t stop. He shot me and...I...and I...my hand pulled the trigger...I killed a fifteen year young boy.”
               “Ah, that is where you received those impressive scars.” David said nothing. “He shot you. You had no choice.”
                “I killed a kid with freckles, glasses.”
                 “Yes, you did. Si, mi amor, it  happened.”
                  “Don’t tell me it’s all right!” He whispered angrily. “It is not all right. Never!”
                  “No, Davíd. You have a scar from where he shot you and another invisible one where you shot him. It hurts and that is good.”
                  “Good?” David mumbled.
                   “Si, if it did not hurt you would not be the man that you are, who God and I care for.”
                   “You and God, huh?”
                   “And you, cariño, God decides when we are born and when we die. In between it is what you call free choice. It was time for the fifteen year old to go.”
                   “That is ludicrous. I can’t believe that.”
                    “It was a terrible thing, muñeco, but not intentional. You did not mean to kill the boy. You were trained to respond. Your killing him was an unintentional accident. Feel the pain but do not be the accident of guilt.” She leaned over the table and gently kissed him. To his surprise he morphed the kiss as they embraced in public with a feral passion to erase the pain.
                    They broke, looked at each other, nodded, he poured Sangria for both and they each drank, tilting their glasses in a silent toast, in recognition of the pain of being human. Words were not necessary...he looked at her across the rough hewn table with unprotected affection. He got it. Smiled. Easy silence.
                      “I think now, my Davíd, you are beginning to stretch.”
                       He nodded as if a long due reward was granted. “Beginning.”
                       “What is a misogynist? That puta called you a misogynist.”
                      David laughed recalling her reference. “Hatred, dislike, distrust of women.”
                       “She deserved to be slapped because she is wrong. I can always tell if a man likes women the way he makes love. You, my Davíd, love women. Yes, you do!” She said with a dirty twinkle in her yes.
                         “I love some women, not all. Not her. I couldn’t make love to her the way I do with you.”
                      “Thank you for that. You are not a misogynist.”

               “No, I may be a sexual hedonist, or even an existential misanthrope, but not a misogynist.”
              Olivia laughed, “Now you’re showing off with so many words. I like that you are smart.” She toasting, clinking glasses, “Sometimes I know that I am enough smart but when you talk like that I am not so sure. Hedonist, misanthrope?”
          “Misanthrope...I love humanity...I just don’t care all that much for people.”
          “And me?”
            He drank, looked at her, swimming into her deep dark eyes, teasing, “You? What about you?”
            She played the coquette, “Do you like me? I am people?”
            He gave up the game, nodded, reached out and touched her bronzed cheek. “Yes, baby, you I like.”
            She wondered if it was the drinks or the truth but she preferred to buy it as the truth even if it was Sangria loosening. “Baby. That is  your name for me. Good.”
            “Good.”
            “What do you like about me?”
            He smiled, shrugged, the game was on again.
            “Tell me. A woman needs more.”
            “Any particular woman?”
            “Digame, coño!”
            “Your dark, dark eyes that are a chasm of power.”
            “Chasm of power. Power I know. Chasm I will look up later. More.”
            “Your generous mouth.”
            “Bueno...y mi chocha?”
            “Even more!”
            “I love you, Davíd.”
            “We may be lovers but...” he trailed off.
            “But what?”
            “How can you love me? We’ve been together for twenty metaphorical minutes.”
            “Metaphorical. It rolls in the mouth so I can taste it. Very sensual. Met-a-phor-i-cal. How long did you know your ex-wife before you got married?”
            “A year or two.”
            “See!”
            “See what? That’s my point!”
            “You knew her for a year or two and you got divorced. Love has nothing to do with time.”
            “And you think you love me, hmmm?”
            “Not think. Do. Not only love you but love loving you. You don’t know how to do that yet.”
            “The operative word being yet, huh?”
            “You’re beginning...when you have more...”
            “Stretch,” he laughed, “Right, I’ll know how to do that and get rid of disease and pestilence in the world and effect peace and  plenty and...”
            “Basta, hombre, don’t spoil the moment. Just remember that I love you.”
            “Why? How can you be so sure? How can you...why do you love me?”
            “Because I love you.”
            “Because? That’s a kid’s answer.”
            “It is the best answer.”
            Silence.
            “And do you love me, muñeco?”
            He shook his head. Not as a negative but more in wonderment of how and what he was feeling in the moment.
            Olivia persisted softly. “Not forever. Do you love me now?”
            He smiled, slightly nodded, “Yes, baby, I do.”
            “Say it.”
            “Don’t push it.”
            “I am pushing.”
            “Why do you love me?”
            Silence.
            She wouldn’t relent. “Why! I need the words, porque, muñeco, porque?”
            In a naked moment of explosive revelation and unprotected clarity he said, “Because you are a wild, juicy, spontaneous, unpredictable creature who makes me feel...feel like I haven’t ever felt...who, like me, doesn’t fit.”
            “Oh, I fit, cariño.”
            “Really?”
            “Yes. I fit perfectly.”
            “Where?”
            “En tu corazón, mi Davíd.”
            He was still. Not running. Not hiding. Just still. Quietly admitting past his protection. “You do, in some bizarre way, baby, you do fit.”
            “You need to kiss me now.”
            He leaned across the table, put his hand on the back of her neck, brought her closer and they kissed. Both eyes closed they heard a skateboard and a young voice, “Nice!” They looked seeing a young teen whizzing by applauding twice in appreciation. Olivia nodded to him, then turned to Davíd and touched his cheek.
            “You have beautiful, strange, wonderful eyes, brown, yellow, gray, mi amor.”
            He smiled. “You know this is crazy.”
            “No, this isn’t crazy...”
             He burst out laughing and together they harmonized. “This is only dangerous.”