"And you call the South racist."

"Hollywood has an institutional racism the South has yet to realize."

"So Jodie or Charlize."

My mother made a contemplative sound, the soft grunt of a powerful woman who had been in more than a few meetings in Hollywood and understood the bottom line of that business better than most. In her mind, when it came to serious films, ethnic thinking had led many to the back of the unemployment line. She'd acted when she was a teenager in Trinidad, produced her first play when she was in her twenties, and had written some of everything over the years. I was only a shadow of her achievements.

She said, "Nia, why not rock it the other way?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why not make it so the men outnumbered women? Why not have the aliens control the XY thing the other way? Earth could become like a prison, all that testosterone in a massive war for survival. The few women left are cherished because they will be the Eves of the planet. Men killing each other to get to the last women alive, maybe having a lottery to pick a winner. Let the men be desperate for a change."

"Or even better, the men could start having battles in arenas like gladiators."

"You could have young yoni and old yoni, but they all kill for a night with the young yoni."

"Damn, mom. That's messed up. Brilliant, but messed up."

"It's a statement about our society. And how Hollywood puts mature women out to pasture. The mature women would be the sage characters, the more sensual beings, let that message shine through."

"Gotcha."

"Show how men go through a midlife crisis, get stupid, and leave their wives for younger women."

I laughed. "I'll add that to my notes."

"And if you use any of my input, I want my ten percent."

"What ever."

"By the way..."

I asked, "What?"

"You said it's raining?"

"Cats and dogs."

"The weather is perfect here. And I'm going to Roscoe's for lunch and Crustacean's for dinner."

"I hope you get fat and sunburned."

"Don't hate, just pack and come back home, dammit. I'll get the mayor to give you a key to the city if you come back. I'll make them give you your own lane on the 405. Come home. I miss you."

"Miss you too."

We laughed. After the laughter died down we blew kisses and hung up.

My windshield wipers were working overtime as I changed from 285 to 75.

My music was, once again, inspired by the islands, Destra Garcia giving me her soca rhythms, my mind on my hunger, planning to go home and cook callaloo soup with fresh spinach and crab meat.

I sped down the off-ramp and it hit me that I hadn't checked my postal box in a few days, so instead of going right up Cobb Parkway toward Spring Road, my journey was modified.

I went left, up Cobb Parkway past Barnes & Noble and Cumberland Mall, then pulled into the strip mall that housed Circuit City, Toys "" Us, L.A. Fitness, and the Smyrna branch of the U.S. post office. I wanted to check my post office box before going home and shutting down, knowing I would be in for the night.

I wish I hadn't gone to the post office.

There was junk mail. And a really heavy letter, one that had the size and weight of a subpoena.

For a second I felt anger, wondered what the hell was going on now.

The envelope with the weight of a court order, it was a letter from the man I had left behind.

First a text message. Now this bullshit.

I stood in a trance, rain falling outside, holding a weighty message from Logan.

Every extremity went numb. His aroma was on the letter. He had invaded my senses. I moved my ponytail out of the way, rubbed the back of my neck, then put the letter down on the counter, rubbed my temples, felt an intense headache coming on, the damp floor squeaking underneath my damp running shoes as I paced, squeaking as I shook my head, squeaking as I tried to keep my blood pressure down.

I'd abandoned him on Beale Street, had left Memphis in May and put distance between us, using that distance and lack of communication to dilute what ever had happened between us. Seeing his name on the envelope, his address up in Memphis, inhaling his scent, all of that put me in a state of panic.

In a world filled with text messages, e-mails, faxes, he had broken down and sent me a letter.

I counted the pages. Six. There were six pages, filled top to bottom. Each word written on his personalized Strathmore envelopes and paper, crisp and conservative linen in the whitest of whites.

It started with a classic poem.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach...

Then his words followed, his struggling to articulate what he felt for me inked on paper.

It was only romantic when that was what you wanted.

I did not want this. This was the opposite of romantic.

Your beauty is like an eclipse. Can't look at it directly without going blind.

I shook my head, aggravation swirling inside me.

The L-word was written on every page, as if the more he wrote the L-word down, the more it would make me feel as he felt. There was no such thing as love by osmosis. It was manipulative, criminal the way he abused the L-word. If that was how he felt, it was unsettling, because I didn't want him to feel this way. He knew I didn't want him to feel that way, not returning his calls was a clue, and he knew that I'd rather he felt the opposite of this way. Six pages. Six pages handwritten top to bottom.

Nauseous feelings rose up inside me.

I bent over until they went away.

I stared at the rain, frowning, shaking my head. I was in a trance. Across the parking lot was a billboard for the local news featuring The Jewell of the South. I focused on her, stared at her femme fatale eyes-eyes that looked strong, eyes that made me feel stronger than I was at the moment.

Damn, Logan. Let it go.

I had hoped that his desire for me had been cremated and scattered to the winds, set on fire by my negligence. I had let go. I didn't want to be brutal. I only wanted to be honest. But when it wasn't what the other person longed to hear, honesty tended to be brutal. Honesty sounded cruel. Honesty was evil.

The only other option was to lie. But a lie would not open the doors to my freedom. A lie would enslave me to what I was trying to escape. A lie did not benefit me in any positive way.

Sometimes trying to be honest without being brutal was like trying to swim and not get wet.

Thunder boomed as I ran through the downpour and raced to my car.

As soon as I closed the door, I picked up my cellular and called Logan. Chalk that up to irresistible impulse driven by a mixture of angst and rage.

Logan answered on the first ring. "Is this my Trini girl finally calling me back?"

I swallowed. He knew I had been born at Port of Spain. He knew my father had been killed before I was born, knew that a year later my mother had ended up meeting a hard working and financially prudent man from Los Angeles, then my Trini days were over and my West Coast life began. Not many people knew that. Not many people knew much about me. I liked it that way.

I said, "Logan."

"I miss you."

His desperate and sincere tone halted me, made me, in that moment, feel massive guilt.

"Was worried about you, Nia. Been sick worrying about you."

"Just got your...your...the...that...the letter you sent, I just got it."

"What do you think?"

Guilt gave way to anger. Anger that wanted to make my peaceful spirit turn evil. But that was my frustration. A caged emotion that wanted to lash out like a riled tiger.

So many errors were in his letter. It killed me how educated people still didn't get that your was a possessive and you're meant you are. And the phrase wasn't could care less, it was couldn't care less. Could care less meant you still care. Right now I couldn't care less about Logan.

I wanted to tell that college graduate and successful businessman to learn the difference between their and there, that there was no letter D in congratulate, wanted to tell him to relearn the I before E rule, really wanted to point out irregardless wasn't a word, wanted to drive home, take a red pen and mark corrections all over his bloated six-page manifesto and mail it back to him, FedEx, overnight.

I took a breath. "I'm...we...look...we really should talk, to clear the air between us."

"Good. I'm in Atlanta."

I paused. "What?"

"I'm in the ATL."

"What are you doing in Atlanta?"

"Drove down in the rain."

"You drove four hundred miles in the rain? Why would you do that?"

"I need to see you. This has to be handled face-to-face."

I closed my eyes, rubbed my neck. "Are you really in Atlanta?"

"It's raining hard. Skies are black. Lots of thunder and lightning."

"When did you get here?"

"Not too long ago."

"What are you doing here?"

"Was waiting to hear from you, left you a few messages, said I was coming down."

"Well, we hadn't agreed...even if you left a message...we hadn't talked about you coming down here. There is more to an agreement than you leaving a message, then doing what you want to do."

"Why haven't you answered my calls?"

Pressure mounted and I rubbed my temples, the answer to that question seemingly obvious.

What I felt was the opposite of plea sure. I had left him. I had sensed there was going to be an emotional earthquake, knew in advance, and had left without warning. Now that earthquake was here.

He asked, "Can I come over?"

"No."

"I've been driving close to seven hours on bad roads. Will you at least meet me?"

"Where are you?"

"Midtown."

I said, "You're in Midtown? Where in Midtown?"

"Atlantic Station."

"Okay. Then take 75 up to Howell Mill Road. That's about halfway."

This was my area. I didn't want him near my home, didn't want him to try and pull the I-need-a-place-to-crash-to night routine. He had my mind all messed up. Had my thoughts all over the place.

He said, "Okay. Howell Mill Road. Then what?"

I paused, thought about it. "You know where Wal-Mart is?"

"I can find Howell Mill Road with my GPS. Where is Wal-Mart?"

"When you get off, go left. You'll see a brand-new plaza on the left. A Verizon and a Starbucks and a Ross are up top. Wal-Mart is down on the lower level, underground. Meet me down there."

"When?"