I followed her out the door, her swift pace being matched by my own. She went first toward Nasal Dental, then beyond Nasal Dental, stopping where the building ended. For a moment I had thought she was leading me through the heat and taking this issue to McDonald's.

Jewell Stewark pulled her hair behind her ears, did that like moving her mane would improve her hearing, as if she had a lie detector installed in her lobes, then she quivered, shook her head before she looked at me again, her bottom lip trembling.

She snapped, "Let's not play games. You sent my husband text messages late last night. He was in the shower. That was me on his phone. That was me you were texting. I was the one who sent you the message asking you to come to Starbucks. Bitch, don't you dare talk to me like I'm some fool."

I stood there, stunned.

She growled. "Bitch, yesterday he sent you a picture of his dick. After you sent that text, I went through his messages. He's been sending you messages all day, every day. You've been meeting him at your home for lunch. Reading books and fucking each other. Don't stand in front of me thinking I'm stupid. He sent you a picture of his dick."

Then she spit in my face. Her spit came quick, venom from a riled rattlesnake, that discharge flying across the four feet that separated us, hitting me hard, echoed like a blow from an angered pimp.

I yelled, not at her, but yelled as if a fist had been slammed in my right eye.

Colors flashed before my eyes, danced and disappeared inside bright lights.

As I recoiled and wiped her spewed DNA away from my eyes, she hurried away, moved down the walkway toward Starbucks, moved through humidity that made free men sweat like slaves.

It felt as if I had been in a car crash, momentarily in shock, momentarily disoriented.

A few people were sitting outside Starbucks, black people not being too fond of the heat and direct sunlight. Mostly men were out, this weather being the kind that messed up a woman's hair. The small crowd that was enduring the heat, they were watching Jewell's abrupt exit, then they were staring toward me. Southern men who had good home training came to me, stepped out into the oppressive heat, handed me the coarse brown napkins from Starbucks to clean my face, asked me if I was okay.

By then Jewell Stewark had fled to her car, was safe inside her Jaguar, and had pulled up to the front of Starbucks. She sat there with her engine running, staring at me as I frowned at her. She grimaced at me, didn't say a word. She stared, cried, and sent silent curses, dared me to step into the streets so she could run me over, her anger saying she wanted to turn me into roadkill.

She had been the one who had read the text messages I sent to Mark.

She was the one who set me up, had me come here so she could spit in my face.

My chest continued its rise and fall, thunder in the background, sweat blooming on my forehead.

She pulled away, drove by the dentist's office, made a right turn before she made it to the McDonald's parking lot, then made another right on Cascade Road, sped back toward I-285.

Everything became a blur. I ran to my car, was going after her, left everything I had brought with me inside Starbucks, hopped in my Z4 and tried to chase her, but she made it to the on-ramp at 285 while I was stuck behind cars at the light right outside Starbucks. She was speeding onto the interstate, making a right turn and heading toward Campbellton Road. When the light changed I sped around cars, made it to the on-ramp, attacked the ramp like I was leading the pack at NASCAR, sped around cars, made it as far as Camp Creek and I didn't see her. Union City, Fayetteville, a thousand destinations were in that direction. As far as I knew she could've exited at Campbellton and connected to 166, could've been heading back toward downtown or midtown Atlanta.

Or she could've been speeding toward Peachtree City. Speeding to Mark's job site.

Anger had me so heated, sweat was running down my face, back, and neck.

In my mind the same video played over and over, her spitting in my face appended with the violent fantasy of me grabbing Scandinavian-colored hair and beating Jewell Stewark senseless.

I turned around, went back to Starbucks, rushed inside and jogged to the toilet so I could take a tissue and wipe her filthy DNA from my face. Nothing was there, but I still felt her refuse on my skin.

I hurried and closed down my laptop, moved by all the ladies of DST, and gathered my things, head down, trying to hurry and leave this place, too angry and embarrassed to speak to anyone.

Again thunder sounded. That same thunder lived inside me.

The skies roared.

Rain fell hard.

THIRTY-SIX.

I sped down the back side of Starbucks.

With haste I traveled down the narrow street that had a Murray Funeral Home and a day spa, my car zooming as I took the narrow street behind Applebee's and Verizon that led to the strip mall facing Fairburn Road. I stopped driving. Had to before I hurt somebody. Was too angry to be on the road. I just wanted to be away from Starbucks, away from the people who had witnessed my shame.

I had to get in contact with my lover. I had to warn Mark.

I called his cellular. Wasn't sure if he would answer, maybe Jewell was holding his cellular hostage. But Mark answered. He was happy to see I was calling. Happy until I told him what happened.

"Hold on...hold on." My words rocked him. "She spit in your face?"

"She set me up. She came up to me in Starbucks looking like she was about to lose the plot."

He cursed, anger and confusion blooming, his tone pure irritation and aggravation.

"Mark, how could you keep the messages like that? You know how women are. You know how we are. She said she read all the messages I had sent you, all the messages you had sent me."

"I cover my tracks, but you called late last night. You've never sent messages late."

"How in the world could she go through your phone? I mean, why didn't you delete the messages before you walked into your house? How could you be so careless, Mark?"

"Look, I'm about to get out of this meeting and come to you."

I took another hard breath and realized my own weakness. My feelings for Karl were strong, as were my feelings for Mark. But Mark's emotions were an ocean, like still waters, ran deep. Rooted in things that went beyond physical pleasures. There was chemistry. He appealed to the light side of me.

He said, "Nia...are you still there?"

I closed my eyes and saw him. Smelled him. Felt his rough hands massaging my body with gentleness as his baritone voice made his presence that much stronger. And I had empathy for him. For my lover who was trapped in a horrible relationship, wishing he lived in a place of beauty.

"Nia?"

What I felt for Mark was what Logan had wished I felt for him, the emotions that made a woman stay where she should not stay.

He repeated, "Wait for me, okay?"

I took a deep breath.

He told me he could meet me on Cascade Road and Fairburn. He said to wait inside Supreme Fish Delight. It was a discreet place, not too far from where I was, that way I wouldn't drive the streets in panic and fury. I went there, holding hands with an unstoppable anger. A place with yellow and blue walls, pictures of the owner and Snoop Dogg enlarged and placed everywhere the eye could see. Reverend Al Sharpton was going off the air as Michael Baisden came on the radio with his grown folks music and relationship topics for the community. Maybe I should've called in, let my world become fodder for the community. While people hid from the forces of nature and ate fried tilapia, okra, and potato salads, I found an empty table near the window, checked my watch, sat there waiting for Mark.

I went through my old messages from Mark. The ones I had sent. The ones Mark had sent.

Love sucking your lingam...licking your pre-come...taking you deep in my mouth...

Jewell Stewark had read them all. She had read all of my secrets.

Remember us at the parking lot at the W...how you pleased me in the rain...

Inside my head, a bell was ringing, each reverberation creating a massive headache.

Fish frying, hail falling, trees bending in the storm, Michael Baisden on the radio.

Sounds, smells, emotions. My senses were in overload.

My body trembled and I held myself, felt as if I was about to reach critical mass.

Still I waited in both impatience and ignorance. Unaware insanity would follow me home.

THIRTY-SEVEN.

Dark clouds followed me.

As did the rain.

The falling of one raindrop caused all drivers to forget all traffic rules. Southern hospitality became Atlanta rudeness. I wanted to send a one-finger message to the discourteous, but giving another driver the finger, unless your car was armored, was a fool's move. Not when so many trucks had Confederate-flag stickers in their windows, not since the Jena Six and Palmdale Four, not since so many had itchy trigger fingers. My frustration was escalating. I checked my rearview, did that just to look back at him.

He was behind me, following me home.

That was my only consolation.

His lights flashed from low to high to low. I called him on my cellular.

He answered, "You okay up there?"

"That bitch spat in my face."

I wiped my face, expecting to feel her sludge on my skin. There was nothing.

I looked in the rearview, imagined I could see him as I said, "Thanks for following me home."

"Get off the phone."

"I'm glad you came."

"Focus on driving."

"Okay."

The trip to Cobb County was horrific. The twenty-mile drive took an hour. We exited at Atlanta Road, navigated rising waters to the Park at Oakley Downs. He parked at the end of my driveway, not in front of my garage like I thought he would, did that like he was leaving space for his brother to park when he came, if he came. After parking he ran to me, rain falling on his head, regret on his face, bags of food in his hand.

I said, "She spat in my face."

He kissed my forehead, then followed me inside, came up the stairs to my kitchen.

He put the food on my kitchen counter, turned to me, and said, "Come here."

"The bitch had the audacity to confront me and she spat in my face."

Those words, those phrases had become an infinite loop, my vocabulary suddenly limited.

He kissed me. He came inside my home, and he kissed me like it was going to be all right.

Or maybe that wasn't the first time Jewell Stewark had spewed her venom in the face of others.

Wonderful scents rose from his bags. The scents of the islands.

He'd brought me food. Jerk chicken, rice and peas, from a restaurant in the Cascades.

He was with me. He was taking care of me. He was attentive, rescuing a damsel in distress.

I said, "It's supposed to storm all night."

"I'm not going anywhere. Staying until the storm is over."

I appreciated his concern, this moment, wanted to smile, but I didn't own a smile, not now.

I asked, "Has she always been like that?"

"She's always had her issues."

"She read all of my text messages. So she knows everything I said, everything that was said to me, has any communication between you and your brother. She knows everything."

He carried me upstairs, kept telling me it would be okay, comforting me as he undressed me, whispering in my ear as he bathed me, kissing me, taking me to my bed, putting lotion on my skin.

A thousand times he kissed me, each kiss an apology, each kiss comforting me, each kiss returned, each returned kiss asking him to alleviate my stress, each kiss inviting his body inside mine.

We moved slow, found plea sure without orgasm, kissed and kissed, went close to the edge.

His voice trembled as he whispered, "Don't come. Stay right here. Enjoy the sensation."

We stayed that way, in a state of erotic consciousness, minds navigating, moving down a spiritual path, energies rising from our skin, mild trembles moving through my body, the electricity of eroticism. I had no idea he could make me feel this way. Maybe because my emotions were so intense at this moment, so extreme and out of control that everything about my being felt hypersensitive and enhanced.

I asked, "What are you doing to me?"