Sometimes I hate women. Maybe “hate” is too strong a word. I resent their power. Growing up in a house full of nothing but girls helped me see just how manipulative and slick they can be. How far they’re willing to go to get their way. How we fall for the okey-doke every single time. My only problem is, they’re also my weakness. They’re necessary for my survival, which is why I’m rarely without one. I don’t care what color they are, except I ain’t never slept with a white woman, but that’s mostly because Mexican and black women been keeping me pretty busy. I know how to make women surrender, can talk ’em into just about anything, because I guess I’m handsome, been told I got sex appeal—whatever that shit means—but I’m also intelligent, and on top of everything: I’m a good lay.

Little Miguel charges into the bedroom and Luisa pulls the covers up to hide her long breasts. “Hi, sweetie,” she says as he jumps on top of the bed. “We’re going to get you some breakfast and then we go home, okay?”

He looks at her like he don’t believe her.

“Now, go, go, go, so Mommy can get dressed. Watch cartoons for a few minutes and I’ll be right out.”

“He’s a nice little boy,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says, and gets up. When I look at her in broad daylight with no clothes on, I realize that her body is jacked up. But who am I to complain? Shit, she’s still nice. She ain’t no crackhead (like a lot of ’em I’ve run into at the bar). She ain’t no diehard alcoholic. And she ain’t on welfare. Wait a minute. Yes she is. But she definitely ain’t married, and she ain’t vulgar or nasty or some ignorant high-school dropout. She takes night classes in continuing ed, too; besides, she likes me. She kept me company last night, fucked me good—at least I think she did—and I’ll keep her around until I get bored or find somebody better, whichever happen first.

In a way, what I’m hoping to do is stumble upon a wife. I been trying to replace Donnetta for years, but it ain’t easy to fall in love. It ain’t something you should have to work at. I think I’m still making the transition from being married to being divorced. It’s only been six years. If I tell the truth, on some days, when Donnetta might be washing clothes or drinking iced tea with her BLT or sitting in rush hour traffic, I pray that she’ll come to her senses and realize she still love me as much as she love God, that she’ll beg me to come home and we can be a family again. I can make myself remember how much I used to love her, when her faith was in me instead of just God, when she made me feel like a king. I’m sure I could love her again. It would be so nice to have my life back. But this is all bullshit, and I know it.