What had been the real attraction? It wasn’t just his looks. It was more than that. It had to be. It must be. She couldn’t remember. Then she thought of something. At some point early on it came up that she’d recently bought a Catlett silkscreen, and they began to talk about art. Was that it? She didn’t know. She’d never considered their happiness before. And here she was trembling in fear—her own fear of flying. This must not happen.

As soon as she said this—which may or may not have been aloud—Fire’s kiss skidded across her cheek. She ran to the door, straightened herself, and went to join the others.

* * *

Fire returned from the kitchen with the beers, which she’d forgotten, and found her leaning against Lewis on a tasseled sofa that sat across a table from some velvet chairs. Her legs were drawn up, and she was shuffling a deck of cards while Lewis and Claire talked business about a pair of candleholders. Ian was in a corner muttering into his cell phone.

Fire held the tray in front of Sylvia and she reached out without looking, which pricked him, although he knew her intent was not to snub. At the last second, as her fingers began to curl around a Red Stripe, he tilted the tray, causing a minor chink and splash. He derailed her focus as she helped him, rummaged her eyes for something—something he couldn’t describe, something he knew he’d know on sight.

“I see you two have met,” Claire said, chuckling with Lewis.

“And I’ve made a big splash.”

Sylvia dabbed her pants with a napkin. Fire held his hand toward her. She took it charily as if it were a fish and said her name, framing her words with a fragile smile. He squeezed her hand secretly, wondered why, and concluded that he was teasing her. She was, after all, teasing him. It couldn’t be more than teasing, he told himself. It must never be.

Smiling, he introduced himself. His voice flowed like water over river stones. She creamed warm sweat in his waiting palm.

“Nice to meet you,” she said. “Don’t worry about the spill.”

“There are more to come. I’ll be serving the drinks tonight.”

They didn’t speak for the rest of the evening, but carried on a private intercourse through looks and gestures. A raised eyebrow meant, “Hi again.” A stroke down the nose was, “I like you.” Smacked lips said, “We’re really mad.” And a lowered head urged, “Let’s stop this now and get on with our lives”—which he thought would be easy because he lived in Jamaica to begin with, and would be leaving New York in two days. But also because she was involved.

Late in the evening, after being quiet for a while, Sylvia raised her eyebrow again, triggering in Fire the memory of the first time he’d thought about sex. As he sat on the floor sorting records, he saw again the tenement yard ringed with zinc sheets where he spent as many summers as he could with his uncle I-nelik, a pudgy dread whose features were always hidden behind welding goggles and a beard that hung in clots. He saw the shotgun houses, scrubbed to pastel softness by the heat, and the wandering bands of mongrels—mangy beasts whose teats flip-flopped like paper bags.