Whiskey glass lifted, clicking against his teeth. He regards you with something like loathing, fascination. Mild disbelief.

In high school? Fucking middle school? So young? Jesus! How many?

How many? We didn’t count.

Laughing at him now, the look in his face. Who was counting?—you want to know.

And this was—when? How old—? Like, sixteen? Fifteen?

Around then. Or earlier. Eighth grade? Seventh? White girls, I mean. Girls who fucked black boys. Who weren’t afraid.

You—weren’t afraid?

Why’d we be afraid? Black boys were the best.

I—I think—that must be—amazing . . . How many?

Why’d we count? Nobody counted. That’s a crude question.

Possibly now you’ve gone too far. Crude is not a word one would ordinarily apply to Orlando Metti.

But you are laughing. First time ever, maybe. In such circumstances.

You’re lying, aren’t you? Laughing at me.

Laughing at you? Why would you think that, Orlando.

Frowning to show how God-damned serious you are. But the laughter bubbles up again, like bile.

Are you?

Am I—what?

Lying. Laughing at me.

Shaking your head, could be no. Could be yes.

Measuring the distance required for you to flee, to get out of the way of his fist.

As for the men, not boys but black men, there’ve been eleven.

Is that including now? The present time?

N-No. . . . Not right now.

But you have hesitated, he has seen. Not so drunk he can’t see. Asking you the crucial question. Perceiving how you take it.

When was the last one, then? The last black fuck?

Not meaning to provoke the man. But yes, meaning to provoke the man: making a show of counting on your fingers as if calculating how long you’ve known Orlando Metti.

Well. I guess—seven months ago. Approximately.

Here in Catamount Falls?

Of course! At the university.

Is he—are you—now?

Told you no. Not now.

Were you ever seriously involved with any of them? Like—in love . . .

Licking his lips for this is not easy. Love has a clinical sound in the man’s mouth. But has to ask, has to know. Burning to know. Excitement, not knowing what the answer will be.

Again that vague inclination of the head, maybe no. Or—yes.

And did you—do you—compare?—a black lover, white lovers . . . ?

“Compare”—how? You mean the size of the male penis? Black male, white male?

How blunt you are, how unexpected: uttering the word penis to confound the man staring at you in disbelief.

For not previously in his knowledge of you have you been so frank. Drawn to the sorrowful virgin/Madonna discovered asleep in his bed Orlando Metti is finding this revelation hard to comprehend.

Matter-of-factly you tell the amazed man that it is true, exactly as white men fear, the black penis is larger.