The water rolled over places of my pain—a bite on my left forearm, scratches on my back, a sore right shoulder, a rawness of the left side of my dick from someone’s teeth. I put my clothes on gingerly, like a running back after a hundred-yard game. In the mirror my eyes were red and my face flushed. I craved my empty bed.

By the time I was dressed the ladies were gathered in the living room. Robinette, now fully dressed, sipped apple juice. Walter was nowhere to be found. Beatrice stood by Robinette and clearly had our young friend under control. Perhaps the godmomma of decadence had found a fine young disciple. Meanwhile, Sonja’s demeanor had changed. I could see the well-bred, highly motivated, ambitious Buppie in her had now reemerged. She’d freaked enough for the week. I guess it was time to put her mask back on.

“I just spoke to my boyfriend, and he does know who you are,” Sonja said excitedly. “He saw you on something on A&E about Prince.”

“That’s what I used to do,” I said. “I was a talking head for years.”

“Well, I need to get an autographed book for him.”

“Not a problem,” I replied, as if we’d just met at a book signing.

In a perfect world I would have met Sonja at a conference on African American something or other. Maybe at a dinner party via a mutual friend. There we would have talked about our families, our careers, our past lovers, and what we liked for dessert. We would have gone to the movies. Some theater perhaps. Had sex on the third or fourth date and vacationed in Cancún or Negril. But this wasn’t a book signing.

As we stood on Thirty-fourth Street hailing cabs, I mused that Sonja was outwardly the type of sister any man would aspire to marry. Her shape, her gig, her complexion were a black man’s ideal. But then Sonja was no stereotype of upwardly mobile accomplishment. There were other shades to the lady. And then there was that boyfriend.

As if reading my mind, Sonja asked if I had a card. I didn’t, but I wrote my digits on the back of hers and put another one into my pocket. Beatrice watched without comment, though there was a twinkle in her baby browns. The ladies hopped into the backseat, but I didn’t get in.

“You’re not going with us?” Beatrice wondered.

“No, ladies, I’m gonna stop and grab some food and then take the subway home.”

“See you soon,” Beatrice said warmly.

“Call me,” Sonja commanded. “I want an autographed book for my boyfriend.”

Robinette offered a listless “Bye,” and then sank into the backseat as the cab pulled off.

I stood on the curb watching the departing cab and then slid out my cell. By the time I was in Mickey D’s I’d raised Walter.