His eyes were half closed, the skin on his face rumpled like the damp sheets beneath her.

“You,” she said, smiling. In her mind her cervix was the head of a talking drum, and he was playing a love song to the gods.

“If you love me, then prove it,” he whispered. “Surrender everything. Turn over.” He reached for the lubricant. “I want complete surrender.”

He was sweet and attentive afterward, wiping her down with a cool, wet towel as she lay on her back hugging herself, her shoulders drawn up to her ears, as if she were afraid that her fluttering legs would propel her body through the open window. He brought her water, and held the back of her head as she cotched herself on her elbows to quench her only remaining thirst, and he kissed her brows as he wiped her lips. Addressing her as “baby,” he went to draw her a bath, his brows flexed haughtily after breaking her down with his cock, which was badly chafed but throbbing with excitement after escaping the noose of her anus.

“Is it wrong for me to be doing this?” she asked when he returned. She was sitting up with her legs crossed. There was a sweet burn beneath her.

His arms were splayed on the window ledge. He was pulling deeply on a Craven “A,” jetting blue smoke in the face of the reddening sky.

“What you mean?” he replied without looking around.

“Sleeping with you behind Phil’s back. Fucking you again after telling you I didn’t want that anymore.”

He turned around, his face ablaze with triumph. She gathered the sheets around her to shield herself. Fuck! She’d taken the light in his eyes for compassion. Recognizing her mistake made her angry. Gave her strength. She lay down again, feeling the urge to spit on him.

He sucked his teeth, looked at her and sucked his teeth again, thought she was cowering. Of course you can’t look me in the eye, he thought. I’ve just reminded you of how much you need me, of how you can never be faithful to any man as long as I’m alive. I’ve got the handle, baby. You’ve got the blade.

“There’s nothing wrong,” he said, stonily. “You’re a whore. Y’have a whore mentality. You cyaah get away from yourself.” He crossed his ankles and flicked some ashes in his palm, trying to appear controlled; then, forming his lips in a kiss to taunt her, he took a sip of smoke to calm his nerves.

“What makes me a whore?” She threw off the sheets and stood in front of him. Naked and afraid, but determined to protect on Phil’s behalf the seed of pride within her.

“Because you open your legs for any man,” he snapped.

“Call me what you want, Ian, but opening my legs is easier for me than opening my heart. You of all people should understand why.”

He crumpled beneath her words—a cornstalk in a shower of hail. “Why Phil?” he heard himself say. “What about me, Margaret?” His thoughts imploded, sucking in his cheeks and eyes.