“But fuck them,” he added, “let’s find somewhere to sit and talk.”

Wiping her face quickly, Sylvia ignored the stares and held her pocketbook against her side as she followed him to a corner where the seawall joined the concrete fence of a peach-colored house; there in the overhang of a mango tree they sat side by side and spoke quietly, as the sea continued to hammer rocks below them.

Unaware that she was leaving that evening, Fire asked her to tell him about her novel and sat with his arm around her as she told him about the love story she was writing, blushing when she described the male protagonist, a novelist from Jamaica, a richly embroidered version of himself. They really wanted to talk to each other about the implications of their unexpected reunion, about the significance of this second chance. But what if I want it more than her? Fire thought. Sylvia was thinking the same about him. Nervous and afraid, but concealing it well, they talked about the things they knew were safe, drawn like magnets to what had first attracted them as they had sat on the Promenade in Brooklyn when he had come to see her from London—books and music. Glancing at her watch, she realized that time was running out, so she dared to be bold.

She placed her hand on his lips and said, “Do you realize that we’ve never danced?”

“We can dance tomorrow, if you want,” he said. “Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up.”

Stroking the back of his neck she said, “But I’m leaving today … in a few minutes.”

“What?” Fire lost his balance and almost fell over the wall into the sea. He wanted to ask her to stay, but he didn’t feel he had the right. To his knowledge she was still involved. “Where are you going?”

She told him.

“And what does that mean?” he asked. He wanted to add “for us” or “for me” but he didn’t feel he had the right.

She stood up, pulling him to his feet. He sat down again, trying to stall her. She remained standing, holding his hands, willing him to ask her to stay.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess it’s up to us to define.”

“But we can’t have any more crying now.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t embarrass you.”

“I’m not worried about you,” he laughed. “I’m worried about me.”

She gave him her address in St. Lucia and told him to write or call.

“Tell Walcott to write you a love poem on my behalf,” he said, feigning levity, running his hands along her sides now, feeling the dip of her waist and the flesh on her hips, which felt damp beneath the fabric. “I couldn’t write you the poem you deserve. My brilliance is lament. And I’m happy now. Happy that we’re parting like this.”

“By the way, I have a bone to pick with you, Mr. Heath. Why didn’t you tell me you were a famous novelist?” Some twenty yards away, in the direction of the church, some boys were pointing toward the star-filled sky, discussing UFOs. She looked back at Fire again and was seized by desire. What if she unzipped him and pulled her come-slick panties aside and sat in his lap? Did she have enough control to do that—to have him inside her and not gyrate or cock her waist and throw it back?