So wha you sayin … you jus bruk up wid a yute you was engage to, dat you know seh you never really love? So wha you engage fo den? Wha kine a life you did expect fe live wid him? Happy? No? So why you deh wid him fo? Me no believe dat. Come on … you is a attractive, intelligent, talented woman. You no need no man fe status. Wha bout love? Oh … ah see … you learn fe love status. But him mus did make you feel good some o’ de time though? Well, at least you being fair. But most o’de time him make you feel nutten at all is wha you sayin? And a whole heapa time him make you feel bad. So why you never leave? Security? Wha kinda security? You have a degree and a nice apartment, a likkle lump in de bank, a profession. But you did waah fe make sure you nevah lose these things … you did waah keep up … you did fraid fe slip. I see. You cyaah really explain it, nuh true? Cause you no really understan it. You cyaah even understand why me a-make dis in a big ting. Me know wah you a-tink, y’know—dat everybody dweet so is a normal thing … fe go fe status insteada love. Me can see you point, y’know. Me know how it go. It tough out deh fe de woman-dem. Man hard fe fine. And after you love plenty bad one when you young it easy fe say love no so important again when you feel age a-run you down. But tink pon it now. It did wort it? You cyaah answer? Don’t worry. Me and you know dat you know.

Her head was a cup. Her thoughts were clattering dice. Smoke pimp-rolled across her tongue in a blue-gray velvet suit.

And Fire, she thought. What will it be like to see him? What will he say when he hears my voice? How will I explain myself, my fears, my failings, without breaking down? She was standing where he’d stood that time … that time …

The alcohol fumes were stinging her nose. Questions. Questions. Tumbling like a diviner’s bones. Oh, shit. She grabbed her head. The splifftail slipped from between her fingers.

Flames flew toward her, beaks sharp and orange, like fluttering birds-of-paradise.

* * *

Fire, meanwhile, was slouched in the Land Rover outside Mr. Bartley’s bar, alone in the empty square. The headlights stared toward the horizon, a faint line between black water and black sky. It was the time of night when the sea shed its bluster and hugged the feet of the embankment and confessed with a lisp to the presence of pain, the constant prick of the broken bones of the sons and daughters of Africa. The Caribbean sea, frivolous by day, does not rest well at night. It murmurs. It whimpers. It wheezes under the weight of guilt.

A dog barked. Up on the main road a truck honked its horn. A rock-steady riff, dry and ashy like waifish feet, hop-scotched through the open door.