When the new husband is on his way home, Hominy turns the car around. She drives back. She parks the car in the street, but she doesn’t park well. She locks the car doors. She enters the apartment. When the new husband returns, he touches her shoulder with his wrists.

Hominy learned things when they began living together: number one: that the new husband makes noises in his sleep, a kind of humming. When he makes these noises in his sleep, she digs her nails into his arms to interrupt. Hominy dislikes the new husband dreaming of things she cannot know, and she dislikes that there exists a musicality within him, so she digs her nails into him, number two: that the new husband prefers for Hominy to whisper, number three: that the new husband doesn’t like to be stared at for longer than a few seconds, four or five seconds, number four: that the new husband likes to sleep with his face near Hominy’s legs, exhaling onto her legs, inhaling near her legs, and that he doesn’t like sitting with his legs set apart, he disapproves of Hominy’s legs, set apart, five: that the new husband likes to smell things before he consumes them: peanut butter, fish soup, baking soda, ackee, pistachio shells, labia, turmeric, number six: that the new husband clips his nails in the corner of the bedroom, on the wooden floor. The grayish white lunula—moon-like pieces—he cuts them, the new husband, he sits on the floor for hours with the tools: the emery board, clippers, the orange stick, the cuticle trimmer, the buffer, his back dangerously curved.

The apartment belongs to the new husband. It doesn’t fit Hominy, but she places her things in it. She places her things next to the items that do not belong to her, her few items of clothing: a mint-green sweater and a leather jacket lined with wool. A first-edition Fran Ross, a spider plant.

When they eat together they use one fork, or one spoon. Sometimes they use a knife. Hominy and the new husband feed each other, taking turns with the singular utensil, sitting close together. They starve, waiting for the other to return home. They sometimes wait for hours, weak and waiting with the solitary instrument in hand.

Other things Hominy and the new husband share: their obsession with leaving things about. Hominy and the new husband like to clean around objects, dusting only the places they choose. A selective dusting. They also share a love of opening the windows wide, no matter the season. Also, the delight at sleeping in and of watching documentaries late at night: they watch No Maps on My Taps, the Harlem men loosen their ankles, they swing their arms, they click, they perform with earth-toned suits, browns.