He nodded, hearing in her voice the dirge of a premature decision. It was too early for her to say she wanted this, he thought. Him or his way. She was like Ian in some ways. She needed status and possessions to feel secure. The Earth shoes were a good comparison. Once upon a time they were the rage … now they too had been outgrown or thrown away. Time would tell with her. The real test would come when he went away. Would she want him then? Or would she want the life she’d gotten used to? She was lukewarm now, although she thought she was feverish.

She said something that he didn’t hear. He looked up, cocking his head interrogatively.

“I said you remind me of Bob Marley,” she repeated. “I saw him at the Garden with the Commodores. I’d never seen such charisma in my life. And … wow … I remember taking a hit off my first joint and thinking, ‘Oh shit, I’ve never wanted to get involved in a concert this way before.’ Whenever he would call out, I’d cup my hands over my mouth and scream the loudest. Wo-yoyi. Wo-yoyi. Wo-yo-yo-yo-uh. Wo-yo-yo-yo-uh. There was a sensuality to him … not plain sex appeal … but a spiritual magnetism … as if he were a shaman … as if he had the power to draw people out of themselves into this new space … his space, I guess … and make them do things they’d always wanted to do or never thought of doing before.”

“Bob,” Fire said, wondering how this was related to the discussion. She began to hum, and he recognized the bluesy air of “Turn Your Lights Down Low,” which the band on the barge was playing now, guiding the ballad with a torch of shimmering guitars.

She turned her body to him and drew her knees in to her chin, wrapping her arms around her shins.

“You look like the picture on Natty Dread,” she said. Her voice was soft but buzzy like the ripping of damp silk. “The hair is the same … not locks … but a mantle of Spanish moss. And your nose is similar and your cheekbones … they’re like fragments of rock. Your eyes are different, though, and your forehead. But especially when you’re sleeping, or thinking, the resemblance becomes uncanny.”

Her lisp, now that she was getting tired, was becoming more pronounced, investing even the most common words with an erotic sibilance. The mention of sleep aroused in him the memory of her nakedness. And as he thought about watching her through the doorway, he began to undress her with his narrowing eyes, drawing his lids closer so his lashes could coordinate more fluently as his eyes slipped the straps of her dress over her shoulders.

“Did you ever meet him?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Marley. Are you listening to me?”

In his mind she was lying on her back with her legs apart and his tongue was engaging her clitoris. Whispering to it. How are you? Nice to meet you. Are you shy? Is that why you wear this hood all the time? Here … let me help you slip it off. I want to see your face so I can kiss you …