Jewell screamed like every inch of her skin was being peeled away from her body.

Her scream shattered all orgasms.

Her scream made Kenya fall away from Karl, her orgasm interrupted by the sound of horror.

Karl sat up, his orgasm incomplete, but continuing despite the shock in his eyes.

Moans ended, subdued by panic and shock. They saw Jewell in her nakedness, in her agony.

First there was nothing. Then there were the sounds that existed behind sounds.

The sounds of labored and panicked breathing arrived, crashed over everyone at the same time, as if everyone had held their breath and was now breathing once again, all at once, all out of rhythm.

The way Jewell was looking, it was easy to prognosticate what was going to happen next, the outcome of the evening was written all over her face, was held in her hysterical body language.

Jewell said, "Kenya, I have to tell you something. About Karl. About us. About all of us."

She heard his heavy breathing first. His hand touched her, tried to pull her back to the other room. Mark was standing behind her. Naked as well. Trying to tow and tug her back to their room.

But it was too late. Red Stripe lager in her veins and envy in her heart, it was too late.

It had been put out there.

Kenya stood up, naked, sweat-ridden, her face reddened by plea sure and surprise, her hands between her legs, hiding herself as she stared at Karl, as she stared at Mark, as she stared at Jewell.

She wanted to know what the fuck was going on.

Four naked people.

Coitus interruptus four times over.

The scents of love and shock and fear and jealousy and frustration dancing in the air.

In a court of law, what had happened might be considered an excited utterance.

An excited utterance was something said with spontaneity, an uncontrollable outburst, words that didn't come on the wings of a well-thought-out fabrication, words that flowed from a troubled soul while living under the stress of excitement. Or words that flowed when the pain was too deep to bear.

This was her excited utterance. This was the drunken confession she could not keep within.

Karl tried to drown out her words.

Mark tried to tow her back into their bedroom, that struggle futile, she wasn't moving.

The twins failed.

Jewell told Kenya. She told Kenya what had happened between all of them. She said that she was trying to protect her from them, saying the things all scorned women said, all women who felt they had been made a fool of, trying to spin the situation, give morality to a situation that was never rooted in morality, each word the echo of feeling betrayed, the song of feeling stupid, the voice of revenge.

Kenya needed clarity.

Yes, Karl had been intimate with Jewell.

Yes, right before she arrived.

Yes, Jewell had been intimate with Karl, and Mark knew about it.

Yes, she had made love to both of them, had taken them one at a time.

Yes, consecutively.

No, never concurrently.

Yes, that is what was going on.

Kenya stood near the bed, naked, her trembling hands covering her mouth, her eyes wide.

Kenya screamed. Sweat raining from her flesh, Kenya closed her eyes and screamed. Screamed like she was drowning. Screamed like the quicksand was up to her neck.

This was a moment that would change her forever. A new pain that was a rite of passage.

Karl lowered his head.

Kenya slapped him. She slapped her brand-new fiance. She slapped him like she was trying to slap the tattoo of her image off his skin. Struck him over and over and over, each slap echoing in the humid room, the dampness from his flesh magnifying each blow, each time it sounded as if her hand wanted to stick to his flesh. She beat him until he was forced to cover his face. Mark took a step into the room, but stopped at the edge of the escalating violence. He knew better. They were twins. This was his brother. But even twins were born separately. They had their own entrances into the world. No matter how close, sometimes they had to do battle alone. Kenya cried and cursed and beat and slapped Karl, jumped on him, pounded him with fists, each blow doing no damage, none that could be seen.

She beat Karl until she was exhausted, her hair wild, sweat dripping from her skin like tears.

Out of breath, Kenya cursed them all, her chest heaving as she called them names that were beyond unkind. Tears in her eyes, Kenya stormed into the bathroom, slammed the door.

Karl and Mark were staring at Jewell. Anger. Disappointment. Jealousy.

Jewell turned away, went back to her bedroom, sat on the bed, wiping her eyes.

Mark came to the room, silent, leaned against the dresser, his head down, his head shaking.

Karl went to the bathroom door, pleading with Kenya to let him in, his pleas unanswered.

Within the hour Kenya had packed, her packing loud and disturbing, filled with curses and speeches and pleas from Karl to at least stay until morning, pleas to wait until then and talk.

Kenya came to the bedroom door, stared at Jewell, that stare filling the room with ice.

Kenya snapped, "You're staying here with them?"

"I was wrong. I'm sorry...I never should have said anything. It was the beer. I had too much beer. Don't leave him like this. He's so upset. He's really hurting. You hear him? He's hurting bad. He really loves you. He really does. I'll take the blame for this. I was just...just confused. I was infatuated. Mark is my boyfriend. I'm with Mark. Karl means nothing to me. We'd been drinking, things got out of control. I knew better. It was my fault. Be mad at me, not him. Just don't leave him like that. Please?"

There was a long pause.

A pause and silence that caused her to raise her head, raise her eyes and look at Kenya.

Kenya was standing there, waiting, wanting to look in her eyes.

The look on Kenya's face, the way her beauty had changed to something vile, her mouth tight, her neck tight, as if her mouth was filled with a mixture of Buckley's, castor oil, and Father John's.

Lips trembling, Kenya stared Jewell down, that stare penetrating Jewell, terrifying Jewell.

"Sick bitch." Kenya growled and shook her head. "Then this is where you belong."

Jewell wiped her eyes, every part of her body shaking, wanting Kenya to leave her alone.

Kenya went off on Jewell, cursed her out, called her stupid, called her a whore, called her jealous, told her she had seen the way Jewell had been staring at her since she arrived, told her she sensed something, but what she sensed didn't make any sense, thought it was jealousy and hatred based on complexion, based on class, never dreamed it was because she was fucking Karl and his brother.

She cursed Jewell as if it was all her fault.

When she was done lashing out at Jewell, she gave Mark the same anger and disrespect.

She cursed Karl, asked him why did he disrespect her by bringing her there, said she had enough drama.

She told them all to go fuck themselves and each other and whatever else they wanted to fuck.

Kenya left the room, her sandals slapping the tiled floor, the wheels of her luggage click-clacking across the grout in the tile, her luggage off balance and bumping the walls, her departure loud and violent. Jewell heard Karl, begging her to stay, to not go, telling her he loved her, that Jewell meant nothing to him, that it was blown out of proportion, saying things that made no sense, desperate things inspired by fear, driven by the fear of losing the one thing, the one woman he claimed to love.

Desperate. Karl had sounded so desperate.

The door to the hotel opened and closed.

Kenya was gone.

There was silence. The silence that came at the end of a tsunami, the silence that arrived after all had been destroyed, the silence that covered the survivors as they stared in disbelief.

Jewell wiped her tears and smiled. Not a wicked smile.

An emotional smile rooted in pain, not victory. She had hurt Karl as Karl had hurt her.

Kenya had left Karl because, as far as she knew, Karl had made one mistake.

But love was like skydiving, one mistake could be fatal.

Karl remained in his room, naked, angered, jaw tight, eyes blood-red, fractured and heartbroken.

Jewell smiled her own heartbroken smile. As if she was his emotional twin.

Mark came back to the room, his head down, disappointed more than angered.

The heat. The excitement. The Red Stripe that had her inebriated.

She ran to the bathroom, fell on her knees and prayed to the porcelain god.

Everything came up. Akee. Saltfish. Plantains. Red Stripe. Bammy. Everything she had eaten came out of her body, left her retching behind a locked bathroom door.

She heard Mark calling her name, shaking the handle on the door.

In between retches, she told him to go away.

She stayed in the bathroom until she was done, stayed in her own smells, her own sickness. Sweat covering her body. Dizziness holding her down inside her nightmare.

When the illness was under control, she cleaned herself up. Cleaned the bathroom. Showered, scrubbed her body with hot water, then let cold water run over her heated body, sat down in the bathtub, let that water fall over her body and through her hair, attempted to baptize herself with sanity.

Then she was scared to leave the bathroom. Scared to go back and see the damage she'd done.

Taps came on the bathroom door, soft taps that sounded like shots from a cannon.

Her head ached. Dehydration was the beast she wrestled with now.

Without drying off, her hair dripping wet, she unlocked the bathroom door.

Mark was in the hallway, waiting, worried.

Jewell kissed Mark. She took him to the shower, had him clean himself, then she took his hand, pulled his wet body toward their bed. She needed Mark, needed to not lose him too.

She took to Mark. Made him moan. Allowed him to give her orgasms over and over.

Some real. Some faked.

All loud enough to cause Karl to bang on the door and scream for her to shut the fuck up.

Loud enough to cause Jewell to smile her inebriated smile.

In Jewell's mind, her emotional barometer told her Mark treated her like a lady.

But another part, a deeper part of her spirit, told her Karl had made her feel like a woman.

She had been exposed to both kindness and suicidal dick, the latter having the most power.

She listened to the things a man said during sex as if his words were gospel, his moans the punctuation to the words driven by heat and lust, took his orgasm to be a commitment to nurturing her soul. She didn't understand that men said anything to get sex and hardly remembered what they said during sex.

She held Mark, kissed Mark, made love to Mark with the same intensity and emotion he had when he made love to her, said his name over and over as if language had diminished and that was the only word she knew, the only noun she was capable of uttering, came as he came, then as he held her, she cried.

The tears were real. She made joyful noises but her tears were not tears of joy.

Orgasm had been the great deceiver.

Just because someone made you come, just because you felt like they were making love to you, just because you felt like you were making love to them, just because you called God or saw Harriet Tubman, just because you had visions of Anais, that didn't mean it was love, didn't make you special.

She had never been able to separate emotional needs from physical desire, one was tethered to the other. That symbiotic relationship between the physical and the emotional-between her needs and wants-had left her, in some ways, handicapped; had left her brain, despite all of her learning at Spelman and experiences in the real world, incapable of distinguishing between making love and fucking.

Jewell did not travel that road alone.

At times I couldn't tell the difference. At times I was handicapped.

I asked her what happened to Kenya, asked about the woman with African roots whose image was forever a part of Karl's flesh, the image that caused him to pause and think every time he undressed.