I asked, "You finished?"

"Be natural. Don't look at the camera. Pretend I'm not here."

"Is that how you do it? When you're taking your erotic pictures."

"Just be natural. Pretend you're one of the louche characters in your trashy novels."

I didn't feel sexy, but he made me feel sexy. Made me feel sexy as hell.

The skies boomed again, the warning not to be misinterpreted.

I said, "You done, or do you want me to keep posing until I get struck by lightning?"

He laughed, then put his Nikon away.

I glanced inside his Jeep, saw a plastic batsman hanging from his rearview mirror.

I wiped rain from my face and said, "Cool batsman souvenir."

The one with the wedding ring leaned forward. "What do you know about cricket?"

"I love cricket. Mom played. I played some. Back home everyone plays cricket."

"Where are you from?"

"Trinidad. I'm a Trini."

They looked at each other and laughed hard.

The one with the tats said, "We were born in Barbados."

I yielded a smile. "Why do you have KENYA tattooed on your arm if you're from Little London?"

The photographer's smile lessened. Edges of pain surfaced, then went away, his true emotions veiled by a quick yet gentle expression, one that made him look vulnerable, human, and wounded.

He said, "We're Bajan."

"You guys don't sound Bajan."

The photographer smiled. "We moved around a lot but we grew up out here."

The married one laughed, then he mocked me. "You no Trini. No singsong in your voice."

"Some. Not like my mother. She took me to California when I was still a baby."

"Which part?"

"Grew up in L.A."

"You know Barbados?"

"I know about Crop Over. Cave Shepherd. St. Lawrence Gap."

"And we know about eating doubles. Carib beer. The borough of Chaguanas."

They laughed and smiled identical smiles. Those smiles as delicious as doubles.

The one with the tats motioned at his souvenir batsman. "Bought it in Antigua."

I nodded. "Wonderful island. Three hundred and sixty-five beaches."

"We were there in March. Went for the Stanford 20/20."

"So you saw Barbados lose to Trinidad."

"Just when you seemed to be so likable. No need to open old wounds."

"You were there for the Stanford 20/20? So was I."

"You and your boyfriend? Your husband?"

I smiled at his flirty question, his way of checking my status. I answered, "Me and my mother."

"Really?"

I asked, "Where did you guys stay?"

"Dickenson Bay. You?"

"Leased a condo at Jolly Harbour."

"Other side of the island."

"Yeah. Outside of cricket, we did a lot of snorkeling. Jet-skiing. Windsurfing. Devil's Bridge. Pigeon Point Beach. Got massages at Touch Therapies. Spent a lot of time in the countryside."

"We were at Sandals."

Sandals was a couples-only resort. I knew he didn't stay there with his brother.

I swallowed, uneasy yet fascinated, introduced reality when I asked, "Was your wife with you?"

He paused. "She came down for a weekend."

"Your wife, did she enjoy 20/20?"

"She's not a cricket fan. Couldn't care less about the sport. Or any sport, for that matter."

"Too bad. What did she do on the island?"

"Same as everyone else. She sat on the beach. Took her to that rainforest one day."

"I took my mother to the rainforest. We did the suspension bridge. The cat walk. The wobbly bridge. Did all of the challenge courses."

"Small world."

"She left and you were probably liming with the diligent women at Wendy's or The Blue Diamond."

They laughed, had the expressions of men exposed, those naughty laughs telling me they were surprised I knew the names of the places men went to buy nude dances and lease working women.

The married one said, "You must've been following my brother all over the island."

The way he said that was exposing, competitive, and at the same time awkward and strange.

The skies boomed again. Driven by the sound, we all looked to the darkening skies.

The photographer said, "Swing by the W. We can talk about the islands. And soca."

His brother added, "And cricket."

"If it's not storming. If I'm not writing. If not, it was nice meeting both of you."

We waved and they drove away.

Identical twins.

Dual desires.

I stayed where I was, accepted the rain until I was wet all over. Wetter in some places than should be allowed. I eased inside my Z4, headed out of the park, took to I-78, then found my way to I-285. Rain came down hard. Changed from mild to treacherous in the blink of an eye.

The temptation was too great. The look in the photographer's eyes, his intentions were clear. He'd hiked up a mountain to find me. As if he knew what I was thinking. As if he knew my feelings.

Both had given me business cards. As if it was up to me to choose the flavor of my sin.

Or tuck my tail between my legs and run into the woods.

There was nothing more exciting than the possibility of a new lover.

Nothing more stimulating. Nothing as frightening.

But.

Yes. There was always a but.

The men who were easy on the eyes were never painless on the heart. I had learned that when I was attending Hampton, my senior year devastating and life-changing. Innocence destroyed forever, idealist views of love murdered, who I was before never attainable.

Life moved forward.

Rain. The bringer of floods. The diluter of fires.

I took the business cards in my hand, looked at each as if I was still staring at Karl and Mark, impure thoughts so strong as I whispered, "Be careful, Anais. Be careful of abnormal pleasures."

I let my window down, stuck my hand out into the rain, allowed my fantasies to slip through my fingers, gave their cards to the elements, to thunder and lightning, rainwater baptizing my strong desires.

FOUR.

Soon I was passing Spaghetti Junction, where 285 and 85 crossed, a zillion lanes of traffic and off-ramps and overpasses. The rain was hard and steady, the drive slow and cautious.

I was on the phone, once again, with my mother, the Bajan twins on my mind, but those wicked thoughts were fading. Our conversation had picked up where we'd left off, talking about my new project. She was always interested in and supportive of my work, no matter what I did. Loved her for that.

My mother asked, "What got you thinking in the sci-fi direction?"

"I saw this article on dating, about how it had changed since women outnumbered men on the planet, and I thought, what if that wasn't by accident? What if there were more women for a reason?"

"Okay, O ye creative daughter. The sci-fi part?"

"Okay, so what if some super-advanced alien race was making it happen that way, making it so all of the men were gradually becoming extinct? What if they had found a way to manipulate the XY sex-determination system, knowing females have two of the same kind of sex chromosome?"

My mother said, "The homogametic sex."

"Right. And they know males have two distinct sex chromosomes."

"The heterogametic sex."

"Yeah. Somehow they make the Y in the male XY invalid. But the X is still good."

My mother laughed. "Who saves the day?"

"Angela Bassett."

"I love Angela."

"But?"

"Has to be a man. Preferably a young, white man under forty."

"Kill my dreams. Why can't it be a woman?"

I changed lanes, an accident up ahead.

She said, "You'd have to go Jodie Foster or Charlize Theron."