“But I was waiting, Phillip, I waited for that charm and magic. I waited while you were in California. I knew you’d get somewhere and send for me. I’d bring my toe shoes and leotards. Everything. But you got messed up in drugs and white folks. When you came back you had forgotten all about me. All you wanted was to get high and run the streets, so I figured I’d have to get where I wanted on my own. I didn’t want to know about your deals in Harlem or your getting busted and sent here. Phillip, I wanted to dance and be whoever I could be dancing. And now, Phillip, if I can tell you, I got myself mixed up in something I don’t understand. Something I can’t get right. I’m through being someone else’s dream or someone’s sweet baby doll. Somebody’s room or Lil’ Sis or whatever you all need. You know what I mean?”

“No. I don’t get you.”

“I’m not down on men, Phillip. But something’s happening to me that has to do with you, somehow. I don’t understand it all myself.”

“You must be mixed up with some man. You pregnant?”

“No. But you’re right about the man. I’m with someone now. A friend needed a place to stay, real bad. I let him come to my place. He’s a dancer like me. We’re auditioning for the same company.”

“You going together?”

“Sort of.”

“What’s he like?”

“He reminds me of you. I mean, we act together like you and I used to. We’re close. We tell each other things and, well, he’s not like other guys I’ve known. That’s all I can say right now. But you’ll meet him. I want you to.”

“He don’t know you got people here, huh?”

“He does now. I’ll bring him along next time. I’ll come to see you again, I promise.”

“He fucking you?”

“Don’t say it like that, Phillip. We’re just starting out. We’re taking our time. He’s nice, intelligent. He’s been to college.”

“You happy?”

“I think so.”

“I want you to be happy. I want to think about you being happy.” Phillip looked at the other visitors and the other prisoners. He watched another prisoner talking to a woman. He watched intently, almost with caution.

“You’ll be out soon,” I told him. “What about parole? A couple of months? A year?”

“That’s if I can hold on. Keep my temper even. Not let these motherfuckers mess with me. They do that, you know. The guards. Soon as you’re close to parole they try to fuck with you so you start fighting them or cut somebody up and shit. Then you get more years in the joint.”