“I left him,” Sylvia heard herself saying.

“Gooood,” Claire replied. “I’m gonna sue them … Ian and Lewis.”

“Gooood,” Sylvia heard herself saying.

“Did you give Lewis back his ring?” Claire asked.

“Yesssss,” Sylvia replied.

“Baaaad,” Claire said. “Never give back a ring. You never know when you’re gonna be broke.”

“Truuuuue.”

“You miss Lewis, Sylvia?”

“Noooo.”

“Whyyyyy?”

“Don’t … know.”

“Still love im?”

“Nooooo.”

“Goooood … because … I’m gonna fuck im up … baaaaad.”

“Gooooood.”

“You hear that drum? That’s Sly Dunbar. Drum roll sounds like thunder. That’s the sound you hear on Judgment Day … a big drumroll … and you have to account for all the fucked-up things you do.”

“Sad … but true.”

Sylvia got back to her apartment around eleven. She felt better on the ride home than she had on the way out. She and Claire had been good for each other. They shared their feelings in a woman kind of way … tender without being sappy … open without being self-conscious … frank without being arrogant. Afraid of what might meet her eyes, she hadn’t examined her tingling face. Claire hadn’t mentioned anything, so it couldn’t be bad, she thought, as she switched on the bathroom light. There was a slight ridge about an inch long on her cheek, and a little nick where one of his fingernails must have scratched her. The subtlety of the damage was no consolation though. The man had hit her. Before this … this incident … she knew what she would’ve done to any man who laid a hand on her. She’d often recited the list in her mind. Cut off his balls. Burn him with oil. Stab him in his sleep.

As she stood there looking in the mirror now, she realized that she did not have in her the dark avenger. Nor had she known that she would feel this way—embarrassed more than angry. She reached toward the bruise. Stopped short. Held her hand an inch away and felt her skin reacting to the cooling shadow. Her lips parted like the skin of an orange, showing the white of her smile underneath, as she felt again the sting of his flesh on her palm. She’d gone toe to toe with him. That was good. For what it meant to him more than for what it meant to her. To her it meant she didn’t take shit. To him it meant the same. But she had always known this. Apparently he didn’t.

She began to undress, smiling still. Then she saw the pools of blood beneath her skin where his lips had recently trampled her shoulders. She was a part of this, wasn’t she? How could he have walked across her if she hadn’t lain down beneath him? Whyyyy?! she screamed inside. Tell me! Whyyyy? Why did you let this happen to you? Why didn’t you leave if you knew you didn’t love him? And you call Margaret a whore? What are you then? Whyyyy? She ripped open the medicine cabinet and grabbed a pair of scissors, scattering bottles and tubes, smashing jars, dispersing pills like pollen; then hacked the clothes from her body, raking her skin without flinching. Whyyyyy? She was naked now. Gathered around her like wet leaves were her clothes, soaked in Listerine and rubbing alcohol. I hate you, she thought. I really fucking do. From the scraps of cloth she fished a roach she’d brought from Claire’s … lit it with the lighter that she used for disinfecting pins and tweezers. I hate you. I hate you. I really do. She began to hear a new voice in her head. It sounded like hers but with a new inflection.