At nearly three in the morning, as a crowd converged on the stall to buy food for the road, Fire heard a stranger say his name. He looked up, searching pairs of eyes for recognition, which he found in those of a tall woman in a red T-shirt with a hood.

“Can I see you for a minute?” she said.

Ian leaned into his ear. “Is long time she a-watch you, y’know. She walk by couple time and look, then turn back … You might get lucky tonight.”

The hood, in which her face was shadowed, created an aura of mystery.

“Can it wait?” Fire asked. “My boss, Mr. Buju, only believes in work. He doesn’t believe in pleasure.”

“I have time,” she said. “Meet me by the seawall.” To Buju she said: “Don’t work him too hard … I think he’ll need his strength.”

Then she left, walking away on long, thick legs, and the crowd said, “Woiieee!” and people began to boom Fire’s fist and slap his back.

“Bomboclaat,” Ian said. “You see the way she walk. Jesus Christ, is like she have a egg between her leg and she doan want it break.”

And in all the commotion, Fire kept watching her, as the sway of her hips, wide and languid, fanned hot coals in his belly. It was not the walk so much that was pulling him in. Jamaican women tend to walk that way. It was the boldness of her approach, a confident directness that said that she could fuck without commitment, which he was prepared to try now … now that he’d decided that he wouldn’t wait for Sylvia, but would go on with his life. Sylvia was his love but not his destiny.

But could he do that again? Just screw and be friends? He needed to know, and this woman represented possibility. He took off his apron, used Buju’s bathroom to straighten himself and freshen up, then sauntered down the street to meet her.

She pushed back the hood when he reached the sidewalk. Like him, she had dreads, but hers were short and tinted maple red. She had nut-brown skin and a broad, flat nose and cheekbones that defined her face.

“So … you wanted to talk,” he said, stopping directly in front of her.

“Yes,” she said, looking up at him. Her eyes were dim and moody like candles. “But first you must do me a favor.” Her voice was low and softly modulated, the voice of someone equally equipped as masseuse and dominatrix. He looked at her appraisingly, trying to see which side of her was easier to engage, using his longest dreads to tie a ponytail, his fingers working deftly, like a gypsy playing a Spanish guitar.

“What would you like me to do?” he asked, raising his brows indulgently.

She planted her hand on his belly and said, “Take your cock outta my face.” Oh to have it there in the first place, he thought.

“My name is Dr. Yvonne Lewis,” she said, as he allowed her to ease him away so she could stand. “I heard that you and your friend had a licking to give me over a washer and dryer. Don’t worry, I didn’t come looking for you. I just happened to be doing some work in the area, and I came down here by chance. But when I heard the deejay bigging you up all night, I decided to come and find you. We women need a straightening out from time to time. I just thought I might get mine tonight.”