She told me Kenya was gone. Had moved on to another man, leaving the engagement ring behind. Her exiting in tears, devastated, ending their love affair without closure, her leaving Karl in the state of love without resolution, he was forever changed, traumatized, shattered, looking and acting like he was ready to commit suicide to ease his suffering. Karl did kill himself. For Kenya he killed himself.

He killed himself the way all damaged men did. By bedding another woman.

First he came to Jewell. Renewed her hope. Gave her his frustrations.

Once again he enjoyed her.

Soon after hope was renewed, Karl went back to enjoying woman after woman.

Karl and his expensive Nikon cameras, all the wanna-be models that flocked to him, women who, in Jewell's bitter opinion, were vain beyond reason, women who gladly undressed in order to capture their egos on film, women who exposed themselves, women who gave themselves to her lothario.

Karl was being Karl.

Living in pain, he drowned himself in plea sure, as if he was trying to swim upstream and return to the womb, as if he was trying to be unborn, as if he was trying to leave Mark in this world alone.

Mark remained her boyfriend, the one she clung to emotionally. The one Jewell stayed with to be close to the lover she really wanted. To be close to the love she desired. She remained with Mark in order to stay close to Karl. The one whose touch was hotter than a thousand orgasms in the sun.

The one who, despite her common sense, despite her reasoning, continued to commove her.

The one she told herself she would wait for.

But seasons changed.

She wanted a husband. Karl wasn't the marrying type. And when the time came, he wasn't the type of man she wanted to become the father of her children. No, Karl didn't want her in that way.

Mark wanted to marry her. Had always wanted her to be his wife. Love at first sight.

Every woman had to consider her options.

Karl didn't go back to Barbados to attend the lavish wedding at Sandy Lane. Didn't stand at his brother's side as his best man. Didn't appear at the reception. There were no photos of the three of them together, none since the holiday on the island of Jamaica. He'd declined the invitation to be the photographer. Maybe that was because he had lost Kenya because of Jewell. Or maybe Karl, in his own way, had some morals. Maybe he saw the hypocrisy, maybe he knew right and wrong, despite his choices.

These were Jewell Stewark's recollections. Memoirs colored by obsession were not memories that echoed the truth. Those memories were her truth, but not the truth. They were not Mark's truth. They were not Karl's truth. Only her truth. The truth as she saw it; the truth as she wished it represented in moral court.

These were her memories.

Memories were edited, revised, parts of the experience revisited in the mind, but omitted during verbal recollection. Or altered to fit one's needs. A lover who once excited you to no end, when it was over, the memories became rewritten in your mental diary, more than likely in your favor; now the loving that used to make you climb walls and come like crazy was no good, its value diminished by emotional negativity. That was the way it was. We chose the colors with which to paint our memories. With those same colorful words we chose who played the parts of the good and the bad. We chose the scents that brought those memories to life. With words we chose the texture. Whoever told the story owned the words and cast themselves as the protagonist, the victim, the one wronged, the victor.

No one ever saw themselves as the antagonist. No one saw themselves as evil.

We rewrote our lovers. We rewrote our pain. We rewrote ourselves.

We omitted. We embellished. We were all revisionists.

We were all liars.

FORTY-TWO.

Jewell Stewark's words had been vivid, intense, and disturbing.

I had expected her to bowdlerize her emotional confession. Her vocabulary had been raw. But it had also been erotic and vivid, just as intense as the thunder and lightning trapping us.

The storm continued to rage, refused to dwindle. Jewell Stewark stopped confessing and quieted. She finished giving me portions of her memoirs, pulled in her lips, and ceased giving me the expurgated version of her private life. A life that included Mark and Karl. A life that had once included a woman named Kenya.

I smelled Karl's cologne, his orgasm mixed with her sex, the perfume on her body. I inhaled their conflict. Heat radiated from her body. Their conflict was thermal, possessed immeasurable energy.

Thunder boomed.

We remained trapped in the bathtub, her body against mine, my every exhale touching her dank skin, my breasts against her back, sweat draining from us, neither of us moving.

She said, "You must think I'm a horrible person."

I didn't answer. I couldn't, not without wondering if she saw me as the mirror of her being.

She said, "You think I'm a horrible bitch."

What ever existed between them didn't end when Mark took her to the altar. It continued. Maybe not all the time, maybe off and on, maybe with Jewell trying to end it on her end, maybe with Karl trying to end it in his own way, maybe with Mark attempting the same, but they all had failed and it continued. They had momentum. What they were doing had its own life and rhythm. It was its own beast.

It was always hard to stop. Which was why some things were better off never started.

She whispered, "Karl has rejected me. And I'm losing Mark to you."

"That terrifies you."

"Yes. That terrifies me."

"So this is The Jewell of the South."

"And they both have come to you."

"Maybe your husband is tired of chasing a woman who can't fully be his wife. Maybe he's tired of kissing your ass. Maybe you've hurt his spirits one time too many and he's doing what he has to do to remain sane. Maybe he's tired of sleeping with you knowing your mind is in someone else's bed."

"Buy why you?"

"Ask Mark."

She snapped, "What is it about you that has Karl parading you in front of me, taking you to work with him, running by my home with you, letting you stay the night, knowing what it does to me?"

I took a breath, let it out slowly, didn't mask my irritation as I repeated, "Ask Karl."

She softened her tone, sounded concerned, gentle, as she asked, "You care about Mark?"

"It's a physical relationship."

"Do you care about Karl?"

I smiled an angry smile. "It's a physical relationship."

"I saw the damn text messages. I read your damn messages to him and I read his damn messages to you. And I know Mark. Mark is my husband. I know my damn husband."

A pause settled between us, silence that magnified the sounds of the wind and rain.

I said, "This is the woman Atlanta idolizes."

"I think...I think you're a delusional whore."

"Is that your thesis statement?"

"That is what I believe."

"You don't know me well enough to make that statement."

"You're with my husband. And with Karl. At once. I know all I need to know."

I retorted, "You're a hypocrite."

"Wonderful evaluation from a sexual opportunist."

"Karl fucked you like a caveman and walked out the door like you meant nothing."

"Must you provoke me?"

"As you have come into my home and provoked me."

"As Karl has provoked me."

"As you have cuckolded and provoked Mark."

There was an abrupt hum, and we jumped, two little girls afraid of the storm. The hum was the sudden sound of energy returning to this section of Cobb County. Energy surrounded us. The lights came on in the bathroom. My computer began to power up. My fax machine began resetting itself. Everything I hadn't disconnected came to life. That meant the clocks on my oven and micro wave were flashing, waiting to be reset. The air conditioner kicked on, the cool breeze flowing through the vents.

Jewell Stewark panted, "I should go now."

"Yes." I panted and wiped sweat from my eyes. "You should go now."

We struggled to move, gripping the edges of the tub, bumping into each other. Jewell made painful sounds as she pulled herself back to the opposite end of the bathtub, as she tried to find room to maneuver. She was reaching for something to hold on to, saw her grab the handle, heard it squeal when it turned, and it turned fast. The shower came on. A burst of cold water rained on our flesh. An abrupt waterfall that poured a sudden chill on our heated skin made us scream like we were drowning. I fumbled, climbed over Jewell, wiggled over her thighs and breasts, almost fell out of the tub as I rushed to turn the faucet back off, but couldn't end the chilly waterfall, not before we were beyond soaking wet.

After that we sat there for a moment, cold water draining into the tub.

The last of the chilly shower water dripping from overhead.

The cold water had shocked my system, awakened me.

We began to stand up, water draining from our hair and clothes, gripping the sides of the tub to keep from slipping and falling, our every move so very awkward, like power had been shut down in parts of our bodies. We moved with caution, released painful sounds as we too returned to life.

A towel bar was at the end of the tub opposite the faucets. I reached over, pulled down two decorative towels, not caring about aesthetics at this point, grabbed the towels and handed her one, then wiped my face and hair, stood up, held the wall with one hand, wiped my legs and left foot before I stepped out and wiped my right foot. She was having a hard time standing, couldn't get her balance. Then she cringed, made a face that could either be interpreted as deep pain or abrupt plea sure.

I wiped water from my face, water that had diluted my sweat, and asked, "What's wrong?"

"Foot fell asleep."

I groaned, again irate and sickened, unable to mask my frustration. "Can you-"

"I'm numb."

"-stand up?"

"Need a minute. Tingling real bad."

She moved from my bathtub, couldn't stand up, eased down on the floor, sandals off, back to the wall, moaning, her eyes to the opposite wall. I extinguished the candles, the heat feeling unbearable, and a moment later I was sitting on the toilet, the lid down, my hands in my hair.

I wanted her gone. I wanted this evil out of my house.

But she was in pain, crippled, her foot numb, that numbness spreading up her leg.

Her colorful sundress was soaked, sticking to her body, showing she had on no bra, no pan ties, her nakedness pronounced. She tried to wring out her dress, dabbed it with the towel. It was a lost cause. I put towels down on the floor in anticipation of her raining as she hobbled like she was crippled. I moved with pain. Being in that porcelain tub, being huddled like that, I had a new appreciation for all the slaves who had to hide out for days, unmoving, in ungodly places during their quest for freedom.

She groaned, "Despite what you may think, or how it may sound, I do love Mark."

"He's your security blanket. The safe one. The one who loves you more than you love him. It's always better to be in love with the one who loves you more. I don't agree, but I understand. He's the one who can never truly hurt you. He can't break you in two. He can't kill you. That's what you love."

"He's my husband."

Her statement was direct and powerful, righteous and spiritual, rooted in morality, an attempt to question my self-respect and self-esteem. Again coming from her-a woman I saw as deceitful-it had no true weight. She wanted me to believe that I was evil, a concept invented by the theological as a form of control. Her words riled me, but did no authentic damage, not the kind that she had intended.

She struggled to get up, now riled and wanting to get away from me. She made it to her feet, stood with one hand against the wall, rubbing her leg, cringing.

I said, "You okay?"

"Let me get to my car." Her tone was terse. "Once I get to my car, I'll be okay."

Jewell Stewark limped from the bathroom toward the carpeted office, her left leg still refusing to come back alive, then limped across the carpet as fast as she could, stopped on the tiled entryway that led to the garage, the tingles trapping her as she leaned against the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

"You don't have to go back up the stairs." I said that fast, my tone panicked, as if I didn't want her violating any more of my space, didn't want her presence and negative energy sullying my townhome any more than it already had, then took a deep breath, one that told me this was finally over. "You can exit this way, through the garage, straight to your car."

She made it to the door and paused, said, "My earring."

"What about it?"

"I lost one. It's a diamond."

I wanted to scream. I was in purgatory and I wanted to scream until the paint came off the walls.