They worked things out in London, and he left there with a deal—he could see other people until she’d settled her life. After this they’d be together … where they didn’t know … but they’d work that out … details and things like that. And all was well it seemed; then four months later, he received another letter—a postcard this time—she was pregnant again for her husband. And he moved to Brazil without telling her … lived in Salvador for a year … painting and teaching English … until she tracked him down and begged him for forgiveness. It was an accident, she said. It wasn’t planned. Don’t shut me out. Even if you don’t want me anymore … at least say you used to love me. He didn’t; and she told him that she’d wait for him in case he changed his mind. A year went by without hearing from her … without even knowing how she had been. Then he got a letter from Ian and found out that she was sick with cancer and that her husband had left her and taken the kids when he’d found out about her affair. He went to New York to see her and ended up staying for a while … stayed through radiation, two mastectomies and silicone. That’s when he started to write … at first little captions for the hand-drawn cards he used to make her, then poems, then narrative meditations on love and loss. You must write more, she said one day as they returned from the doctor—they’d just found out that the cancer had spread. Please save the stories that will die with me … the love stories I didn’t write … I should have written more about love. Are you willing to try something different? he asked. She said yes. I know a man in Cuba … a Santero … I’ve heard great things … but you’re in no shape to travel. Right now, she replied, I’ll try anything.

During the month they spent in Baracoa he fell in love again. And six months later, she went to her doctor and he told her she’d been cured. Soon after that she went back with her husband … for what she said was the last one’s sake. But he didn’t protest this time. He packed his things and went to live with Ian and Claire in Lisbon and began to really write. After that he and Ian moved to Paris; then he moved to London, where he spent five years. He’d been back in Jamaica for a year now, and so was she—lecturing at the university. She was divorced now, finally, and wanted them to try again. Love had never been the issue, she said: he was twenty-four when they met and she had to be practical, had to think about her children … one had to be practical in matters of love.

Why was it so hard to shake her? Fire thought, as he fanned himself with the envelope. She’d even made him late for Ian’s opening. As he was about to get ready to leave she asked if they could lie down for a while. He sucked his teeth, and was about to get short with her until she said, Don’t worry … I just want to hold you. Nothing else. It wasn’t so much what she said, but the way in which she said it: as if she really meant it … and … they went to bed and cuddled; there she pressed her breasts against his heart and milked his swollen guilt. He fell asleep and missed the flight and woke to the rain of her tears. She cried as he arranged his clothes … was still crying when Sarge brought the Land Rover around the front. Don’t cry, Miss B, the foreman said. His smile was as white as his hair. Daddy soon come back. I can’t help it, she said from the verandah. I always cry when he leaves me. But dat’s common assault, Miss B. You should use to it. I don’t know, Sarge, she said. This time just feels different. Different how? I don’t know, she replied. Just different.