Karl rubbed my back, massaged me over and over as we engaged in congress, rubbed my backside as my eyes went to Mark, moans once again rising as I watched Mark dress, my legs quivering as I watched my married lover pause and stare at us, heart reaching for him as he turned to leave, his footsteps taking him down the stairs as Karl showed me all of his gears, the sensor beeping as the front door opened, then the sound of my orgasm following Mark as he hurried home to his wife.

That was unreal. That was surreal.

As if Mark had never been here. As if I had imagined him here with us.

Karl lost control and came. He came hard. Out of breath he eased his weight down on me. I reached back, patted his skin, patted him over and over. That was good.

He wrapped his arms around me.

Karl held me. As if I was his wife.

Mark would never cook me breakfast in his kitchen. Would never invite me inside his home. He would always check his watch when he was with me, the timer always running as if he was in a race, always minimizing stolen moments, always minimizing our moments of plea sure.

A married man would always have to go.

In the distance, the skies crackled and rumbled.

Rain started to fall.

I wondered if it was raining in Greensboro.

In the middle of the night I woke up.

I had to go pee. I went to the bathroom, relieved myself, washed my hands, staggered back.

Karl was sleeping on his side. Naked. The image of Kenya staring at me, bothering me.

I typed Mark a text message.

You tasted too good. Love sucking your lingam. Wish you could've stayed all night. Would love to watch you touch yourself, make yourself hard for me. Imagine my mouth on you, licking your pre-come, then taking you deep in my mouth. Remember us at the parking lot at the W. Thinking about how you took me, how you pleased me in the rain, that makes me want to touch myself, taste myself.

Message sent, I put my cellular away, had it on silent.

But it lit up within thirty seconds, letting me know I had a message. It was a text from Mark.

Where are you?

Where you left me. Still at Karl's. Wish you could sneak back down here.

Why don't you meet me at Starbucks tomorrow afternoon.

Sure.

Can't wait to see you.

I went to Karl. He rolled over.

He asked, "You okay?"

"I'm okay."

"You've been tossing and turning all night."

"Sorry."

We cuddled.

He whispered, "I adore you."

I didn't answer. I was too scared to respond. But I kissed him. Kissed him and held his face. We kissed until our breathing became heavy, infinity resting between our inhales and exhales.

I opened my legs for him, invited him inside me, and once again we exchanged plea sure.

When we were done Karl slid away, rode the elevator down, then rode the elevator back up, brought me a glass of water. I sipped, shared water with him, then he pulled me closer to him.

He whispered, "If you want to talk, just let me know."

"You do the same."

"Okay."

I would never be able to do this with Mark. What pained me was that the night had been beautiful and I had enjoyed Mark, but strange emotions existed. Somehow Mark had denigrated my experience.

It was something deep inside me that preferred Karl. At least it felt that way to night. I told myself that those emotions were wrong. Everything was as it should be. Karl was here. I was with him.

I convinced myself that everything was perfect.

THIRTY-FIVE.

It was over one hundred degrees by noon.

The humidity was atrocious, the heat index made it feel as if Atlanta had been moved six stories below hell. I was dressed in ripped jeans and sandals, a simple green T.

Thoughts of Greensboro remained on my mind. Kiki Sunshine remained on my mind.

I sent her a text message, told her I'd try to call her today or tomorrow.

She sent me back a smiley face.

It was so simple to give someone hope. So easy to generate a smile.

Last night with Karl, it had been wonderful. In the bathtub, then Mark helping make it a temporary menage trois, his energy causing me to take it to another level. Making love like that was addictive. It was pure crack. Then the way Karl held me last night. He was so kind. Which wasn't what I would've expected from a man who was incapable of the type of love it took to sustain a real relationship.

I backed away from my thoughts, felt as if I was transparent, as if everybody could read my mind. My energy felt apparent, had me rocking, as if they could all tell that I had received dick, been fucked so good I wanted to slap somebody. They weren't watching me. They were in their own grooves.

All of that was behind me. It was back to work. Back to reality.

When I left Karl's home I drove to Starbucks on Cascade. Before I headed back to Cobb County I had promised to meet Mark for coffee. I walked into a coffee shop filled with laughter and overlapping chatter. Samba music on the sound system. Members of Delta Sigma Theta were all over, a sea of red and white T-shirts, their red and white sorority insignia on almost every license plate in the parking lot. They were collecting fans for the elderly. Or money to buy the fans to help the elderly survive the summer. Muslims were here. Members of Kingdom Hall were here too. All mixing with the Christians.

All over were front-page conversations about Michael Vick, his illegal dog fighting up in Virginia, his legal troubles, and how this would be the end of the Falcon nation as the fans of ATL knew it. In the background were conversations on New Orleans, how it had become Murderville, USA, since Hurricane Katrina.

Next to me a man and two women were looking at the AJC and talking.

One of the women said, "By the way, if Bynum is a prophetess, how come she could not prophesize the fact that she was going to get beat down in the parking lot?"

They laughed it up.

"Hell, if they was at a hotel at four in the morning, you know what was up."

"They was fucking, then they was fighting."

"Hello."

A celebrity's pain became the working man's fodder.

I had my laptop out, was in a corner writing. Not ten minutes went by before I had e-mail from my mother. She was sending me photos of us climbing Brasstown Bald, our faces sweaty, our smiles broad.

I went to the Web site for The Trinidad Guardian. Wanted to see what the costumes for Carnival were going to look like, saw a beautiful one made of plumes and feathers, very dramatic, the kind of costume that motivated me to keep my body in Carnival shape.

My eyes burned. Working wasn't working. Some days I felt as if my work was powerful and poetic, singing. Other days I wondered why I wasn't working at the post office. This was a post office day. Not enough sleep. Right now working was a lost cause. Would go home and nap in a few minutes.

After I met with Mark. He'd be here soon. He'd stop by for coffee, long enough to chat.

I smiled. Thought about last night, now stimulated by what had happened, how he had shown up, how I had pleased him, how he had left with envy in his eyes, how he wanted me but couldn't have me. But he did have me. He had me and didn't know he had me.

I was so exhausted, so deep in thought I didn't notice people coming in and out of the coffee shop. I didn't know I was being watched, being dissected by an angry soul. I should've felt the radical drop in temperature, the abrupt climate change that had taken everything from balmy to arctic.

First I saw hints of a sundress, one that reminded me of Kiki Sunshine's sundress.

She was here.

I was startled when I looked up, saw unkind eyes, saw the look of malevolence standing over me.

It was a similar colorful sundress, bright hues that looked good on fair skin.

It was not Kiki Sunshine.

It was Jewell Stewark.

Hostility, not friendship, had found me. Once again I existed in a life-changing moment.

She had magically appeared. As if she was the Wicked Witch.

As if she had been looking for me, maybe following me as I journeyed through Oz.

Her scent touched my nose, eased inside my nostrils, became a part of me, a part of my essence, captivated me and startled me. Her perfume was rich, self-righteous, stunning, marvelous. She owned the stance of a diplomat and the scent of a queen, a scent to rival Imperial Majesty.

She looked smaller than she did on television. Television added ten pounds, gave height, and now both of those illusions were non ex is tent. She had a wonderful shape, a backside that made the men inside the coffee shop pause, but the material on her top was light, see through, showed that she had small breasts, hardly any to speak of, an A-cup in a Victoria's Secret Miracle Bra, a bra that created the illusion of cleavage. Despite her imperfections, the type of imperfections that made celebrities seem human, her face was beyond beautiful. She had curves and plenty of ass, the things that captured a Southern man's attention as she entered and exited a room. But between her neck and waist, she was as attractive as a young boy.

In a harsh, ugly, yet still investigative tone, she said, "Your name is Nia."

Hearing my name come from her mouth halted me.

Inside that moment I went through a range of emotions: shock, fear, embarrassment, envy. I searched for something to say but inside that moment my power of linguistic expression withered. We were no longer in cars, no longer separated by fiberglass, no longer able to push down on the accelerator and leave an uncomfortable or unwanted moment behind us. We were face to face.

All I could do was look around the room with a quickness, see who was with her, see who was watching me. Besides the members of Delta Sigma Theta, at the table two feet away from mine a man in a gray suit was having a meeting with another man in a black suit. Next to them was a woman in white pants, brown blouse, big Louis Vuitton bag at her side, Sony VAIO and papers out, as if she was waiting on a client to come to a meeting. Another woman was sitting in one of the big green chairs, a copy of The New York Times in her face. A few more people were sipping iced drinks, listening to iPods, reading books, on laptops, but none acted like they were with The Jewell of the South.

"Yeah." My voice returned. "My name is Nia."

She said, "Nia Simone Bijou."

The landscape of my existence shifted. An earthquake went through my body.

With that second shock I created a modest smile, again looking around to see who was watching, saw a few people who were mesmerized by her celebrity, celebrity that could not generate enough heat to melt a candle in Hollywood. Celebrity that left me unimpressed. Being unimpressed left me unafraid.

The cappuccino machine, the music, the chatter, newspapers turning, that noise filled my pause.

She had the eyes of a hunter. A hunter that had cornered her prey.

I was being threatened. Being threatened made me defensive, made me feel mean. A bag of copperheads were inside me, moving through life that was created at Port of Spain.

She said, "I'm Mark's wife."

She came across as lofty, extravagantly colorful, pompous, bombastic.

"I know who you are." I nodded. "I saw you when I was going to see Karl."

"I'm not interested in Karl or the women he entertains."

"If that's the case, why are you in my face?"

"I'm not interested in Karl. I don't give a damn about Karl."

She looked around the room, spied to see who was paying attention to the famous newscaster. Over in a corner there was a man in military fatigues, home from a war nobody wanted, coffee in hand, looking at his watch every minute. In front of the fireplace, two women were reading books. Another woman on her cell phone talking about anything and everything and nothing all at once.

Eyes were on her fame. Ladies of DST were all around. At least five Starbucks workers were behind the counter. Quite a few men were here too. Jewell Stewark lowered her head, tried to shield her tears.

She said, "Do you mind if we remain civil and take this matter outside?"

"Sure."