She was shoeless, a spatula in one hand, the other hand clasping her waist above the knot that held together a gauzy blue sarong, a scrim of cloud through which her long legs shimmered like lightning in a storm. As he stood there beneath an elm, doing his best to steady the bike, the throbbing shaft of steel between his thighs, he felt her absorbing him, pulling the wetness out of him, the sweat from his pores, the spit from his lips, the oil from his wood, the blood—his very life—which he felt beating against his veins, wanting to spill itself at the corners of her house to protect her from any spirits that might be sent to harm her.

He realized now—felt it, rather—that she was the voice on the phone. There must be a reason why we’re meeting like this, he said to himself. He set the bike on the kickstand and walked toward her, his lug soles drumming the pavement like the hands of a shaman, a masked and feathered juju priest, intoning a prayer of thanks to the ancestors. At the top of the steps, he took her hand, which was smaller than he’d remembered, and thought about what Ian had told him.

“How are you, Sylvia?” he asked.

She replied, “Fine, I think.” The spatula was wet with molasses, which had dribbled over her toes, which he wanted to suck now, as the aroma of cookies wrapped itself around him like a scarf.

“Anyway,” Claire said, edging between them, “we’re going out for a ride. I just came to drop this off.” She gave Sylvia the receipt for the candleholders.

“What are we doing later?” Fire asked. “Should we all get together? Ian said Gregory Isaacs is playing Club Rio. Does anyone want to go?”

Sylvia tilted her head and gave him a smile, a subtle one that preserved the calm of her face. Why is it that I want him so? she asked herself. She was thinking now of the words that she’d scribbled on a notepad as soon as she’d gotten off the phone with him:

It’s funny you should have called just now because I was thinking quite intensely about you. It’s so hot and I’ve been wandering around here naked at times, luxuriating in my own sensuality and having all sorts of fantasies about you. Anyway, there I was, lying on the sofa, topless in my sarong, legs open, stroking my inner thighs, enjoying the tingle, wanting to feel your much larger hands there. To be honest, I spent some of this afternoon on my bed imagining you here. Oh, I just want to be with you, eat you, have you lick the salt sweat off my body.

“I think Gregory Isaacs would be nice,” she said. She hadn’t been to a reggae show in years. “What about you, Claire? Would you like to come?”

“Sure, if I’m welcome.” Claire pinched Fire’s elbow. “But we have to go.”

“And I have to finish my cookies.” She waved goodbye and turned toward the door.