“I just feel a little left out, that’s all,” Ian said. “You came to New York to see me, and you ended up spending all your time with Sylvia. Is kinda childish anyway, to think like that. You’re a grown man. You can do whatever you want.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Fire replied. “Is not simple like that.”

“You said we should put things out on the table, right? So I’m putting things out.”

“Okay,” Fire said. “Oh, fuck!”

The corn that he was eating had slipped out of his hands. And in that moment Ian saw him spilling the beer on Sylvia at the gallery, and remembered that they hadn’t spoken about his exhibit.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead,” Fire said, fanning the embers with his hands to revive the flames. The movement kicked up ash and sparks.

“What did you think of my show? And I want you to be honest.”

His voice was small but razor sharp, like a baby’s fingernails.

Fire wasn’t sure how to answer. “I don’t know,” he said, realizing as he heard the hesitation in his voice the depth of his disappointment. “It wasn’t the Ian Gore that I’m accustomed to. Let’s put it that way.”

“Don’t tell me that kinda bullshit, man. You said we should lay things on the fucking table.”

“Well, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. What makes me qualified to judge?”

Ian sucked his teeth.

“Come on, Ian, man. Be cooler than that.”

“Ah Fire, you’ll never change.”

“What you mean by that?”

“You always try and pussy your way outta things.”

“You can say anything,” Fire replied, angered by the word. “You can talk all you bloodclaat want.”

“But is true … that’s how you are.”

“What the fuck you talking about, Ian?”

Ian began to chuckle as he felt himself burrowing under Fire’s skin. “Everybody knows that,” he said. “Your father knows that. Look at this. A grown man like you had to run away from Kingston because his father was going to scold him. That’s what I’m talking about. And you allowed Sylvia to dangle you. And Blanche did the same. You’re not nice, Fire, you’re a pussy.”

“Ian,” Fire said, narrowing his eyes, “if you call me that again, you won’t like it.”

Ian dusted off his jeans as he stood up, jabbing his finger in Fire’s face and saying, “My show was shit and you know it.”

“You’re right,” Fire said, rising to his feet. “I hated the fucking show. What next—painted wooden fish to sell to tourists in Negril?”

As Fire stared at him, prepared for a shouting match, Ian began to laugh. “See, that’s the Fire I like to see.” He began to imitate Fire’s bowlegged stance. “See, I always knew you had some Shabba in you.”

“You’re a sick man,” Fire replied as Ian’s hyena laugh blew most of his anger away. “Come here, you fucking moron, gimme a hug and promise to be good or I won’t let you out tonight.”